


Pages in a Scrapbook

by ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, But also happy stuff, Drinking, Family Issues, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Angst, Galaktikon Stuff, Hair-pulling, Kissing, Mental Health Issues, Multi, One Shot Collection, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Reading Aloud, Recreational Drug Use, sad stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 40,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: A collection of tumblr prompts and one shots. Mostly kissing, but there's a bit of angst scattered here and there. Each chapter will contain additional summaries and notes. Most one shots are T-rated, but there will be the occasional M-rated ficlet. Pairings are listed in the chapter titles.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Abigail Remeltindtdrinc, Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer, Magnus Hammersmith/Seth, Magnus Hammersmith/Toki Wartooth, Nathan Explosion & Pickles the Drummer, Nathan Explosion/Abigail Remeltindtdrinc, Nathan Explosion/Magnus Hammersmith, Nathan Explosion/Skwisgaar Skwigelf, William Murderface/Pickles the Drummer
Comments: 42
Kudos: 20





	1. A Fleeting kiss (Nategaar)

**Author's Note:**

> A small, fleeting kiss - which is immediately followed by a passionate, hungry kiss.

Another night, another award ceremony. This time it’s Skwisgaar’s. Offdensen mentions a charity in his name, something about recycling old guitars, and Skwisgaar turning pale once he realizes a short speech is involved. Their manager calls it good publicity, and he insists Skwisgaar attend. The man came off as cold as untouched steel. Fitting for a robot, but Nathan keeps his mouth shut once he picks up on Skwisgaar’s curling lip.

It’s about five minutes until Skwisgaar’s called on stage to accept his award, and Nathan watches, crossed armed and mouth slightly parted, as the man of the hour paces from one side of the room to the next. It’s an unbecoming sight, a tick that Skwisgaar picked up shortly after Toki released that crappy autobiography of his. The band figured once the bad publicity was over, Skwisgaar would return to normal, but there was always that one interviewer who’d bring up the book, some wiseass who quoted a line from a chapter.

“The curtain is less than ten feet away,” Charles reminds Skwisgaar. “You need to calm down before someone catches you looking like this.”

Another befitting remark from the man with no heart, but Nathan doesn’t have time to pick a fight with his manager. He waits until Skwisgaar paces in his direction before offering a short nod.

“Hey,” he calls. His voice breaks through the anxious driven veil, and Skwisgaar blinks, spotting Nathan in front of him. 

“Oh, I forgots you ams there,” Skwisgaar commented, bringing a hand to rub the back of his head. He smiles, but his eyes dart to the side, to the bright light flashing across the stage, and Nathan can tell the poor guy’s head is swimming with hypothetical ridicule and mockery.

Nathan shakes his head at the sad sight. This is supposed to be a damn award ceremony. If anything, Skwisgaar should be rubbing it in, teasing Nathan with his freshly pressed suit, popularity polls and mentioning of some silly, gold statue. Skwisgaar is supposed to be telling him none of this is a big deal, that it’s a waste of time, and once this is over and he tosses the stupid trophy aside, tells Nathan that drinks are on him. It’s Skwisgaar’s job to be the particle one. Not him. 

Nathan removes himself from the wall. “Get over here.”

“What?”

“Here.” Nathan beckons Skwisgaar closer with a finger. “With me.”

Skwisgaar shuffles in place, embarrassed at himself. He runs the same hand through his hair and slowly brings himself into Nathan’s grasp. With a yank of his massive hand, Nathan pulls Skwisgaar into a gentle embrace, a pathetic one-armed hug. Would’ve done the real thing, but Offdensen eyes Nathan and sends a “don’t wrinkle the suit” warning that he always does when he tries to get physical.

Skwisgaar rests his head against Nathan. “I cant’s believe this ims still happeninks,” he whimpers into Nathan’s shoulder. His nose brushes up against the man’s top, and he closes his eyes. “This ams patetics.”

“They won’t say anything when you’re up there. They wouldn’t dare,” Nathan states. Skwisgaar nods his head in agreement, but it’s all superficial. Nathan feels a shudder under his arm. A quickened heart rate. Skwisgaar’s still nervous, he thinks, and Nathan brings his free hand to cradle the back of Skwisgaar’s head and pull him into a real embrace.

One of these days he’s going to sit Toki down and teach him a thing or two about writing a damn book…

“You’re going to go up there, and you’re going to rock, like you always do.” Nathan almost growls it out because Charles is staring, pointing at his watch and sending that stupid “please don’t wrinkle that suit, do you have any idea what you’re doing?” look that Nathan can’t possibly bring himself to care about. The testing stare only strengthens Nathan’s hold on Skwisgaar. Screw the outfit.

“Skwigelf, two minutes!” someone calls out, and Nathan feels another series of quakes run up his arms.

With hardly any time left, Nathan takes Skwisgaar by his shoulder and pulls him away to face him. “Listen” Nathan says, “Skwisgaar, I know you’re afraid someone might spout some bullshit while you’re up there giving a speech. But remember, I’m over here. Watching.” His eyes narrow into a threatening glare. “ _Scrutinizing_.”

Skwisgaar smiles, but Nathan can still detect small instances of stress in and around his pale eyes, at the corner of each supple lip.

“If anyone brings up that damn book I’ll send a squadron after them,” Nathan continues, watching Skwisgaar provide another short nod, though this time there’s a sprinkle of that classic, and so alluring Skwisgaar that Nathan prefers to see. Calm. Maybe a little cocky, but definitely in charge. Keeping still, and not letting go of Skwisgaar just yet, Nathan adds in a loud voice, “I will literally make Offdensen call several gears out to commit a mass shooting if they dare bring any of that shit up.

Charles raises a finger, but Nathan shoots him a glare so menacing he drops his hand and, instead, rolls his eyes.

“Tanks, Nathan.” Skwisgaar’s lip curls inward, and he bites it to hold in what he’s thinking. Nathan takes no offense. Guy needs to be on stage in a minute, and the last thing either needs is to let their emotions get too out of hand. If it isn’t going to be the book, it’ll be Skwisgaar blushing, or Skwisgaar not being brutal enough.

Fucking hyenas.

There’s a loud applause on stage, and someone calls for Skwisgaar to enter stage right. The two men share a naked glance, each exposing their innermost feelings. Nathan’s sure he screwed up and let it slip that he is also worried, more concerned than he ought to be, but Skwisgaar’s eyes are soft and filled with a new bounteous, albeit fleeting energy. Nathan hopes it’s enough to make it through the next few minutes on stage, and offers Skwisgaar a small glimmer of his own with his eyes before drawing near.

“Skwisgaar, you need to go,” Offdensen says the second Nathan guides Skwisgaar into a gentle kiss. Nathan barely has time to enjoy the warm, delicate sensation of Skwisgaar’s lips before he pulls away and turns for the stage.

Nathan leers at Charles, not saying a thing because there aren’t any words he can put together to accurately voice his annoyance. He debates raising a fist, maybe throwing some random swears once Skwisgaar’ done accepting his award and does his speech, but before he can think of a word horrendous enough to earn a reaction from the robot, feels a hand on his shoulder. Nathan glances, expecting one of the backstage crew warning him that he needs to go further back, but it’s Skwisgaar.

Nathan raises a brow. “Skwis, what–” but his words are cut off as Skwisgaar takes him and presses his lips against Nathan.

A hand runs through Nathan’s hair, lifting several long strands before sliding behind his neck. Nathan feels each finger curl around him, inviting him to close the gap, which Nathan is only too happy to oblige. He pushes forward, tasting the round, supple flesh with his tongue. His mouth parts, and as soon as Skwisgaar tried to deepen that kiss, nips the tip of his tongue. Skwisgaar sighs through his nose. Nathan nips again, biting down on Skwisgaar’s bottom lip, and not letting go until Skwisgaar groans out his favorite notes.

“Uhh…Skwisgaar Skwigelf!” a voice on stage calls, but neither men are too concerned with the poor jackoff making an ass of himself. They continue holding on to another, Nathan’s eyes slowly closing as Skwisgaar’s lips continue to pull at his, hands against his waist and daring to lower, gripping Nathan’s lower back and sending a massive chill up his spine. Skwisgaar pulls away, and for a second Nathan thinks it’s over, but as he takes a breath and opens eyes, ends up gasping when Skwisgaar’s lips brush over his lower neck, assaulting him with a blazing flutter, a confident whisper filled with intimacy.

Offdensen shakes his head at the two.

“Skwisgaar Skwigelf?”


	2. Breaking a Kiss (Magtok)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tucking their hands beneath the other person’s shirt, just to watch them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin.

Three hours after Magnus arrived at the luxury resort, some jackass came running into the lobby with a makeshift bomb, demanding that he see Dethklok or blow up the entire building. Apparently, it caused quite the uproar, and left a nasty mess once the ordeal passed. He and Toki didn’t catch wind of the event until making their way out of the elevator, intent on leaving the building for rush of the city, only to have the band’s manager and several hooded men warn them the entire resort was on lockdown for the next several hours.

Not willing to let one crazed fan get in the way of their fun, Toki took Magnus back to their shared room and forced him into a pair of swim trunks before dragging him down to the poolside. With the resort on lockdown, the massive cool area was more crowded than usual, and Magnus used it as an excuse to not remove his shirt and remain comfortably situated by the poolside, reclined on top of a cushioned seat. In truth, Magnus didn’t care too much for the crowds, not so much that he would normally avoid the more simpler pleasures of swimming on a hot day, but there was no way in hell he would be caught dead shirtless, exposed in front of strangers and contrasted against his younger, more svelte half currently poised to take a dive.

“Hey, Magnus!” Toki waved an arm up high in the air, catching the attention of Magnus and a small collection of onlookers who didn’t recognize him with goggles on. “Looks!”

Magnus lowered his sunglasses, right eye twitching until it adjusted and quickly fixed in on Toki. “I’m looking,” Magnus repeated, voice dropping with his stare, brain internally screaming at the trails of cold, pool water dripping down Toki’s sculpted abdomen, making him glisten under the sunlight. Toki performed one final wave, earning a slightly strained smile from Magnus, then faced the water. Back now turned, Magnus went ahead and slowly traced the indent of Toki’s spine before leading into a pair of dark swim trunks. His stare further narrowed as Toki’s back stretched into position. “Boy, _oh boy_. I’m looking.”

And Magnus liked what he was seeing.

No amount of jet lag or exhaustion could tear his eyes from Toki’s long, slender legs. Nothing short of having his good eye being gouged could tear him from that sculpted side profile, that wonderfully crafted abdomen and Toki’s sheer ignorance of the effect he had on him and others.

Toki took a dive, and though Magnus was at quite a distance, blinked and felt a chill settle as he watched and waited for Toki to resurface. He stared at the chlorinated pool water, grinning once Toki breached the surface and showed off his long, dark hair clinging to his face, and those long, flexible arms of his reaching to pull it all back and, in doing so, exposed that delectable set of muscles, shallow belly button and Adonis belt.

Just then, Toki sank underneath the water. With a kick of his legs, he jettisoned over to the edge of the pool, then resurfaced in front of Magnus.

Magnus pulled himself upright, enjoying how the water reflected the sun’s ray and gave Toki’s already glistening body a more otherworldly glow. “You look like you’re having fun.”

"I ams." Toki rested his arms on top of the marbled edge. “Comes swimmins with me!”

“Oh, well.” Magnus looked around the pool area. The crowds had admittedly started to dwindle. No big surprise seeing that it was getting close to lunch, and Magnus had caught a glimpse at what the buffet lines were offering before entering the poolside. It was also getting warmer, and Magnus knew they only had half an hour left before the sun became too much for him to handle with just an umbrella covering his top half. He really ought to join Toki. This was Toki’s day off, after all. Magnus let a hand slip over a button, but when he thought to remove it, felt his anxiety double and push against his chest. “Maybe later,” Magnus said, watching the side of Toki’s mouth slant into a disappointed, but understanding frown. “I’m still recovering. Jet lag.”

“Oh. Okays.”

Some time passed, and just as he predicted, it got too hot for him to lie around. Magnus grew tired of pretending to read, and looked around the poolside to locate and convince Toki that they return to their room. He couldn’t find the guy anywhere, at least not without doing a thorough search underwater, but he did see that the nearest poolside bar had no lines. Magnus checked the time, figured he could do for ten more minutes if booze was involved. A fancy mixed drink just might be the ticket he needed to get Toki back inside, and just the way he liked him: grabby, flirtatious and overly ticklish.

He left the seat and ordered two drinks, picking out a top shelf bourbon for Toki’s orange mint julep, and the second he mentioned the younger man’s name, had the two drinks awaiting him in only a few minutes. Magnus carried the cold drinks back to his chair and accompanying table, placing his down first before giving one auspicious glance at the fruity, refreshing scented drink.

“Whatcha doins?” A voice rang up behind him, startling Magnus and nearly causing him to spill the overpriced julep.

“Christ, man. You nearly gave me a heart attack,” Magnus complained, grabbing his shirt and watching Toki sink in reaction. 

“Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Magnus offered the glass to Toki. “Got you something,” he said, heart returning to a calm rhythm once Toki’s mouth parted, finger pointed at himself in disbelief at being offered any kind of gift. Damn, if that wasn’t the cutest thing ever. Toki took the drink, cheeks rising into a perfectly pink smile as he brought the straw to his lips and sipped. The heat grew more pronounced as Toki swayed in place, cupping the glass and nursing a few more gulps and unassumingly awarding Magnus with glimpses of his drenched physique.

“This ams good!” Toki hummed a pleasing noise, rubbing the side of his face as he knelt to place his half-consumed drink next to Magnus’. Once finished, Toki stood up, took Magnus’ hand in his, and Magnus shivered against the cool, wet hand, and frightfully cold fingertips. Toki leaned forward, closing in the gap until Magnus could feel the evaporating pool water covering Toki now being to sprinkle across his face. And then, Toki grinned. Not his usual, opened-eyed or coy grin, but a mischievous snicker; one that harbored a tongue firmly pressed between his shiny teeth, and playfully luring Magnus closer.

“What’s this?” Magnus asked, letting his exhale shift into a mild chuckle as Toki dared to brush his wet face against Magnus’. The cold, wet hair made his entire left side shudder.

“Just thinkins about how I ams going to rewards you for the drinks,” Toki replied, lowering voice sending an exciting throb down Magnus’ abdomen.

No longer suffering from the lag, Magnus asked. “What’s my reward?”

Cool, wet minty-orange tasting lips smashed into Magnus’ thin grin, nearly causing him to stumble back, were it not for Toki’s generous hold. His nose flared, and he inhaled that scent of chlorine, sprinkled in with a bit of the refreshing mint and heat of the sun, and Magnus happily allowed himself to close his eyes and get lost in the sweet taste of Toki’s lips, the feel of the sun and Toki’s hand slowly riding up his arm. Should’ve got him a drink a while ago, Magnus privately mused, widening smile daring to end the kiss, and Toki fighting it with increasing vigor and possessive yearning.

Then, suddenly, a hand slipped under Magnus’ shirt, and shockingly cold, wet fingertips felt up his back. He hissed out a gasp, breaking the kiss as he stiffened, goosebumps springing up as Toki’s fingers continued to trail across his back. Startled, Magnus jumped back from the overwhelming sensation. In his mind, it was the perfect thing to do. With Toki snickering at him, it was the premeditated, totally rational thing to do. Anything to get away from the onslaught of cold, probing fingers. In his haste, Magnus failed to consider their positions, and it wasn’t until he tried taking another step back and realized his foot failed to touch land, did he remember that it was Toki whose back was towards the table, his to the pool.

Toki’s eyes turned wide and white in horror. “Magnus!”

Toki grabbed Magnus by the wrist, yanking and barely stopping the older man from falling into the pool. There was a wet pop from his wrist, and it was more loud than painful; but otherwise, Magnus was safe. Another sharp yank, and Magnus slipped forward, straight into cold, wet arms.

“Fuck.” Magnus complained at the unwelcoming sensation, but a wet hug was far better than slipping and possibly cracking his head against the pool’s inner walls. Or just making a huge ass of himself. Both would have been equally humiliating for Magnus, though the constant Norwegian whispers uttered by a still frantic Toki suggested things could’ve been far worse. Hearing the skittish prattle made the hug feel less invasive, and after a few seconds, Magnus calmed Toki down with a returning embrace. “Thanks, man. You saved me.”

Toki nodded into Magnus’ shoulder. He continued murmuring, first in Norwegian, then in English told Magnus to be careful where he was jumping, and then finally settled into silence. Magnus pet Toki’s crown, waiting until he could no longer feel that racing heart beat against his own before dropping his hand to the side. “You can let go of me now.” 

Toki shuffled, pushing his face into Magnus’ shoulder. The grip around his waist tightened.

“Toki?”

Another squeeze. “Magnus?” Toki whispered into his ear. “Wants to go swimming with Toki?”

Fear rattled up Magnus’ spine at the question. He grabbed an arm, only to feel it withdraw and strengthen its hold on him. Then, came the push, and Magnus felt his heart rate spike up, and he became painfully aware of his bare, wet feet, and the lack of friction he had compared to Toki’s strength and determination.

Magnus quickly glanced over his shoulder. “Toki, don’t you dare, he warned, then turned back to see Toki peering over his opposite shoulder, concentrating on devising what Magnus guessed would be a safe, _shared_ dive into the pool. “Toki, I’m fucking seri–” Magnus started, but then shifted into a yelp that he _just knew_ everyone around the damn pool heard once that same miserable slip from before returned, only now couple with the weight of an additional man pushing him into the sparkling depths. 

The last thing Magnus witnessed before hitting the water was Toki’s inquisitive, curious stare, followed by that once innocent, coy grin. Then, the cold blast, followed by the the deafening fold of chlorinated water toppling and surrounding him. Once submerged, Magnus opened his eyes, and he saw the same, menacing profile circling around him, smiling and pushing bubbles through a satisfied grin while he bitterly sank to the bottom of the pool.


	3. A Goodbye Kiss (Nategail)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hello/good-bye kiss that is given without thinking - where neither person thinks twice about it.

Charles said the job would be difficult, describing it as strenuous, constant and, most of all, _thankless_. He said with an unwavering expression, with eyes that told no secrets, leaving Abigail only with that ominous warning to guide her through the coming months. And there was some truth to his words. Dethklok was a successful band, but it was not without its baggage, and Abigail quickly learned that Toki wasn’t the only member with more than his fair share of issues that needed handling. She only worked with the band a few times prior, earning their favor and respect in the process, and had an inkling there was far more to each member than they were willing to let on (though she had a feeling no amount of friendliness would get the crew to open and express said concerns). And so, despite the gory video clips, lawyers asking her to review her will and testament, and being handed pages of Mordhaus’ layout, contracts that she would need to memorize, and paperwork for upcoming courses on physical fitness, marksmanship, kinesiology and child psychology, Abigail took the job.

She expected her first few weeks as manager to be chaotic. There were several courses she needed to attend to build her physical and mental prowess, classes on Mordhuas’ history, and lessons on how to manipulate and create Facebones videos for the band and staff. There were meetings regarding the transfer of power, the upcoming conversations with the new head of the company, and, of course, the band itself.

Abigail woke up to a light knock, early in the morning of her second week as Dethklok’s manager. The dim lighting emitting from her half-drawn curtain suggested the sun hadn’t risen yet, and when Abigail checked her phone, saw it would be another 40 minutes before her morning alarm. There was yet another knock, and she scuttled out of bed. Abigail expected a klokateer on the other side to alert her of some obstacle course that she missed, but when she opened the door, saw Nathan standing there, small brown bag in hand. 

“Oh, cool, you’re awake,” he said. He rested his intense, domineering stare upon her, starting with the wild curls that had freed themselves from her silken hair net, the lines that dragged from the corner of her eyes, then down to her powdered blue pajamas that were wrinkled and tight in some places, baggy in other areas. He supplied her an affirming nod. “You look great.”

Abigail rubbed her eyes. “Nathan, you’re…awake?”

“Well, yeah,” Nathan answered, stowing his free hand deep within the confines of his jean pocket, then turned his head slightly to the side so that his hair partly hid the subtle changes to his expression. He lifted the brown bag. “I made you lunch. It’s a ham sandwich, with mustard.”

“Oh.” Abigail took the lunch that was practically shoved into her arms. Once she had it, Nathan withdrew again, crossing his arms and looking away while she carefully opened the bag, internally sighing with relief when at the completely regular sight of a few plastic bags bearing what appeared to be crudely chopped apples and baby carrots. “How sweet,” she said, looking up from the brown bag to see Nathan chewing a nail. “Thank you.”

Nathan smiled at the compliment. “We better hurry,” he stated. “You got like…fifteen minutes before you’re late to your first meeting.”

“Are you serious?” Abigail asked, letting her arms drop to the side. “I thought for sure I had my schedule down to a tee.”

“There were some last-minute changes.”

Well, that explained why Nathan was awake at this hour. 

“I’ll say.” Abigail hurried back into her room, not minding when Nathan slowly followed her.

There was hardly any time to fix her hair or apply makeup, much less ask Nathan to please stay out of her way while she tried to condense an hour’s worth of morning rituals to less than five. Luckily for her, Nathan was more than willing to sit quietly at the edge of her bed, his naturalized glare chasing after her every move as she raced to put on her outfit and grab a small travel makeup to take with her to whatever room, station, or field that would serve to fill her morning with laborious tasks.

“Do you know where this meeting is being held?” she asked while hovering over some hair scrunchies that she didn’t want to wear on her first day on the job, but succumbed to grabbing a set, along with some pins and rubber bands.

Nathan rose to his feet. “Follow me.”

As it would turn out, having Nathan around proved to be quite beneficial. He guided her through the dark, twisting halls of Mordhaus, carrying her lunch on one hand, and the opened makeup bag across his raised arm. Though he mentioned a clear time constraint, Nathan’s pace never once broke from Abigail’s, and he continued remaining aligned with her, at an arm’s length. Thankfully, Abigail managed to fix herself a fine layer of foundation, eyeliner and blush. It wasn’t much, but it made Abigail feel a little better about her outward appearance.

They were five minutes late past Nathan’s suggested time when they finally arrived at a small door at the end of a dark, dreary hallway. Abigail noticed the silence, the lack of screams and pleas, and wondered just where she was. Then Nathan opened the door, revealing a small, homely looking room decorated with faded pink wallpaper, worn furniture, and a single fern tucked in the corner. Sitting in one of the couches was an older gentleman was cybernetic arms, and as Abigail entered the room, caught his attention.

“Good morning!” the man said, waving a shiny, mechanical hand. “You’re a bit late, but that’s fine. Come in, come in. We got a lot to talk about.” He stood up to greet her, shaking her hand and giving a warm smile to a silent Nathan. “Well, I’m sure Nathan’s already mentioned it, but I’m Dr. Twinkletits. I’ll be your therapist for the next four to six weeks.”

Abigail was taken aback. “Excuse me?” She turned to Nathan, who was leaning by the doorway. 

Nathan shrugged. “Well, yeah?”

“I don’t recall Mr. Offdensen–”

“I signed you up,” Nathan interrupted. He crinkled the top of the already worn lunch bag, large hands nervously fidgeting for something more adequate and time consuming. Abigail watched, crossing her arms as she patiently waited for Nathan to explain. Nathan looked away in defiance, continuing to play with the lunch bag for a few more seconds before finally caving in. “I, uhhh, figured maybe…before you started working…”

Abigail brought a hand to mouth when she caught sight of a burgeoning shade of crimson starting to form around the man’s sharp cheeks. 

“I wanted to make sure you started your day, alright?” Nathan stiffly grunted, embarrassed at his own words. “So, uhh, yeah. I signed you up for an hour of therapy every week.”

He turned away, hand shifting into fists that shook, and scowl that twisted uncomfortably when Abigail approached and laid a hand on his massive shoulder. 

“That’s… really thoughtful of you, Nate,” she said, her smile melting the larger man’s muscles, softening Nathan just enough that he didn’t mind showing off the worry that he kept hidden behind each deep blue iris. She rested both hands on top of his chest, feeling his resting heart slow as he finally faced her head-on. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Yeah, well.” The bag Nathan carried swayed as he brought his arms up, raising his defenses one final time. “Go ask him. That’s his job.”

“I will.”

Nathan dropped his arms. “And don’t tell anyone about this. _About me_.”

Abigail chuckled at the request. “I won’t,” she promised.

He handed Abigail the makeshift lunch. “Don’t forget to eat your lunch.”

“I won’t.”

“And, uhh.” Nathan rubbed his heel into the stone pavement. “Have a nice day.”

“I will, thank you,” Abigail said.

“Well, if that’s all said and done, let’s get started,” Dr. Twinkletits announced. “Abigail, how about you take a seat over there?”

She parted from Nathan and reentered the small room to take her seat. Abigail squeezed her lunch bag, lips pulling into a tight-lipped grin at the sounds of a sandwich being crushed under her shaking arms. Was she nervous, she pondered, sensing a tinge of concern for herself as she settled into a cushion. Since taking the job, she hardly had any time to think about her condition. There was the occasional nightmare, those rare moments when she was alone in a long, dark hallway that made her stomach knot, her heart rate increase, but Abigail assumed one of the many courses assigned to her would eventually tackle these issues. Well, turns out she’d been right, though not in the way she expected.

Abigail placed her small makeup bag and lunch besides her, and smiled warmly at her odd-looking therapist. The man was certainly a sight to behold. Knubbler aside, Abigail wasn’t quite used to seeing someone with robotic attachments. But the man carried a gentle, if not eccentric disposition, and if Nathan recommended him, Abigail had to assume he was the best Dethklok had around.

Abigail exhaled. She had a therapist now. A rush of relief set in, and she brought her hands together, finding that, she too, needed something to do with her now shaking hands. She was so caught up, so unprepared that she didn’t notice the peck on her cheek, followed by a hushed “see you later” provided by Nathan. Somehow, he managed that large, scowling mouth to alter itself into something small, and so subtle that Abigail didn’t pick up on its presence, not right away. She barely registered the flash, the cascading flow of jet black hair in her peripheral, and the muffled, but prominent sounds of Nathan stepping out of the room. It wouldn’t be until long after her first meeting with Twinkletits was over, after introducing and explaining her situation, and having a good cry upon hearing her own words describe the event, did she recall that faint sensation, and it wasn’t until she picked up her crushed lunch filled with misshapen, cut apples and two fruit-rollup packets, did that phantom kiss return, singeing her right cheek and alerting that even the great Charles Offdensen could sometimes be wrong.


	4. An Unexpected Kiss (Magtok)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it.  
> Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference.

When Toki suggested they visit the largest bookstore in the city, it was done more as an act of kindness towards Magnus, and less because he was genuinely curious to peruse three floors worth of boring, old books. He barely read as it was, and only brought it up because Magnus let him pick what movie they were going to see when they visited the theater, and was super patient when he took Toki to one of the few remaining music stores left in the state and spent nearly two hours looking over gnarly covers of old black metal records. Toki was surprised he even remembered the name, but Magnus shined at the idea, mentioning he could go for a few new reads. 

Toki stood on his toes, peering over a row of dusty novels bearing forgettable names, wondering if he might accidentally stumble upon mouse, a spider’s web or perhaps some long-forgotten token–a keychain, a piece of jewelry or hidden note–left behind by some hypothetical being who also made the mistake of taking their boyfriend to a boring bookstore. He honestly had hoped that a massive bookstore would contain more than just…books. Sure, there was a corner dedicated to yearn, colorful postcards and the obligatory magazine and music section tucked deep in the corner of the first floor, and it was one of the more louder sections, too; however, it proved only a brief reprieve from the impending boredom that had now consumed Toki’s soul.

The bookstore, despite its multiple levels, fancy lighting and pillars, recycled books sculpted into long tunnels and fancy designs, decorative art that covered the walls and filled the building with a warm, comforting glow, and the entire third floor dedicated to the arts, was still just a bookstore. Nothing changed the fact that the air tasted dry, that most of the books Toki picked up were boring and contained no captivating pictures, and that he had to maintain an “inside voice” while he waited for Magnus to sort through an ever-changing collection of novels.

Toki left the fantasy cubicle where he had sequestered himself in, turned a corner and, remaining partly hidden, viewed Magnus some several feet away. He sat on the floor, two books resting on top each leg, and silently analyzed each one, trying to determine the lucky cover that he’d take home. Toki had already attempted to use some of his allowance, but was immediately rejected, with Magnus reminding him Toki already spent money on tickets and several records, and didn’t want their manager hounding him for unnecessary spending again. A shame, because Toki just wanted to leave and return to the bustling streets. Hollywood was literally right around the corner, and Toki was spending its eve in a store he wasn’t even allowed to run around in, toss yarn, touch the paintings, or have fun.

Still, whether Toki wanted to admit it or not, there was something nice about seeing Magnus struggle over something as mundane as picking a silly book. Watching Magnus unconsciously nipping at his own lip, bringing a leg up to chest once he picked up a book, or playing with his own hair was a peculiar, but welcoming sight to behold. If only Toki hadn’t already spent nearly… _forty-three minutes_ in this blasted store, he might have considered sneaking a photo of Magnus’ intense resolve as he discarded one book in favor of picking up a new title. 

Instead, Toki just about had the right mind to call Abigail and ask if he could afford to buy the whole bookstore; that way, Magnus wouldn’t have to worry about having to decide anything!

It was a nice little fantasy, but even Toki couldn’t excuse such an extreme purchase, and over something as stupid as literature. Instead, he pulled himself off from the corner, and decided to try yet another secluded section of the expansive store and see if there might be anything to keep him sane for a few minutes longer.

He ended up in the early sci-fi section, and although Toki had no intent on reading anything, did find some solace in viewing the covers. The pictures of pale, big-headed aliens exiting long, phallic-like spaceships provided some amusement.

Toki was busy staring at a cover of some stereotypical American hero ogling a purple-skinned, but otherwise pretty alien, when a finger prodded his side. Toki squirmed, stumbling back as he recoiled from the surprise attack, and bumped right into Magnus.

An arm grappled around Toki. “What are you looking at?” Magnus asked, giving Toki a firm shake before setting him free.

Giggling, Toki rubbed his side and answered, “Nothins.” He noticed three books stowed under Magnus’ arm. “Oh, you founds somethins?” he asked, feigning innocence, and trying to not sound too hopeful. 

“Yeah, I did,” Magnus replied. The answer alone was a huge relief, but Magnus’ enthusiasm filled the otherwise still and stuffy atmosphere, and for a moment Toki didn’t think the store was too bad. If Magnus could find something worthwhile and smile at him like that, then perhaps the trip wasn’t a bust. “You find anything?”

Toki pulled a holographic bookmark from his pocket. “Just this books-mark.”

“I’ll take that,” Magnus said, snatching it up and stowing it into one of the book’s pages. “C’mon, let’s go.” 

Never had such a plain statement sounded so sweet. “Alrights,” Toki said. He let Magnus take the lead, smiling at the way while Magnus talked about the ingenuity behind one of the author’s work, how literary theorists were still actively writing about the other, and although he hated the third, didn’t mind getting the book because it was second-hand. They descended the stair, and Toki kept nodding his head, not quite understanding what the heck Magnus was talking about, but was still pleased to see how excited Magnus got when talking about the cultural impact a book could have on society.

“Hey, stop for a second.” 

“Hmm?”

Magnus remained put, three steps in front of Toki. Moreover, he was three steps _beneath_ Toki, and with their current position, Toki hovered over Magnus by a good couple of inches.

Magnus pulled out his phone. “Here, get behind me,” he said, gesturing to Toki to move with the sway of his device. Confused, Toki rubbed the back of his head. The ends of Magnus’ mouth lifted in a sly smirk. “C’mon,” he said, “you’re telling me we’re about to go through an entire store decorated with all sorts of crap without you stopping me for one of your selfies?”

The remark warranted a quick snort of the nose, and Toki humbly breaking into an embarrassed, but happily little smile. The bookstore did have a few locations that merited a snapshot, a romantic pose between partners, but Toki had been so bored he hadn’t really noticed until Magnus waved that glowing screen, calling him to position. 

Bookstore or not, Toki wasn’t going to pass on the chance of having Magnus be the one to take a picture of them together. Toki stood behind Magnus, hands cupping his pointed shoulder before kneeling just a little so that their heads were aligned. To his continued pleasure, Magnus rubbed his cheek against his, scratching the side of his face with a rough tickle, then raised the phone, adjusting it accordingly so that it captured both their likeness.

“On the count of three,” Magnus slowly announced, and Toki’s already cheeky grin extended up to his ears as he prepared for Magnus’s index finger to snap the photo. “One…two...” 

Toki held his breath, ready for the photo, when he felt that same scruff rub his face again, only this time it changed, going from rough to soft as Magnus turned, planting a sudden kiss on Toki’s unprepared cheek. His eyes widened, detecting that sudden transition, but not making complete sense of it until Magnus lips pushed against his skin, sending a surprising flutter of delight across Toki as the phone flashed a photo.

Magnus removed himself from Toki before he had the chance to react. “Nice,” he announced, grinning smugly at Toki. His finger and thumb rolled over the photo, enlarging it and earning a somewhat cruel chuckle from the man. “How cute,” he said, then offered up the photo to Toki. 

Fingers brushing over his cheek, Toki glanced at the picture, at himself and Magnus kissing him.

“Oh,” he said, voice turning a little faint. He took the phone in his hands, bringing it close to get a better look at it. It was slightly off, and when Magnus had turned to kiss him, must’ve shook the phone a little, because the surrounding lights had a mild blur to them. Still, Toki’s fingers tenderly brushed over the screen, thumb grazing over past-Magnus kissing his round cheeks, and past-Toki’s expression capturing that tickle, the simple pleasure of being an object of affection, reaching his heart. “Oh. _Wowee_.”

“A little gift for you, for being so patient with me,” he heard Magnus say.

Toki snapped up, feeling his heart tremble upon realizing he’d been caught. “Oh,” he said, voice dropping as he nervously shuffled in place. “Uhm…”

Magnus chuckled again, and if Toki didn’t know any better, was sure he saw the start of a blush before Magnus turned his back on him. “Don’t worry, I’ll still buy you the bookmark.”


	5. "Kiss me" (Chickles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A breathy demand: “Kiss me” - and what the other person does to respond.
> 
> Added some additional headcanon lore, but otherwise kept the focus primarily on Charles and Pickles. 
> 
> Setting: Post-Galaktikon

Being in the hospital this late at night was distressing, amongst other things. It hardly seemed to matter that the entire wing and waiting room was closed off to the public; Charles could not deter the anxiety that continued to prove itself insurmountable against logic and reason. He tapped a shaking finger against his watch’s lens, growing more irritated with each passing second. Across the waiting room, a hanging television displayed the same breaking news that had been playing for the past week: _“Recent Storm Brings Back Dethklok?”_

A clear, concise voice stated there would be more news at eleven, but if recent updates proved anything, there wouldn’t be much to go on. Nobody knew a damn thing, himself included. Charles took pride in being the first to know, to piece the clues and finalize a solution, but even now he was still trying to make sense of things: the thunder and lightning, the rain and its connection with the magic, the unknown song Magnus played and the remains of a broken guitar, and, most importantly, the return of Dethklok.

The very last bit should’ve been enough to clear his mind. Above all things, having the boys back, even in the conditions they were in, should automatically put everything else aside. But while everyone was fine celebrating, crying over the unannounced reunion and sudden resurrection of the band, Charles had to consider the unknown. Since initiating the Dethsong, it had been raining nonstop. Why? Charles furrowed his brows, sinking forward and contemplating the various unknown elements that kept him from celebrating too early.

There was a bright flash that branched across the sky, so intense Charles winced from within the waiting room. Thunder swiftly arrived with it, booming and shaking several windows in the process. Charles gripped his arms, shut his eyes and tried to focus. How did some random song reawaken the band? It wasn’t raining before they arrived, and now it was. What would happen once the storm ended?

Would Pickles…?

Charles pushed the thought aside. No, he needed to remain calm right now and remember his role. No matter what, he needed to be the voice reason. Even if this was all temporary… no, he needed to stop this!

A heavy sigh escaped his nostrils. Charles pushed his hands into his eyes, feeling the weight of the last several days being to increase its weight and hold on him.

He had almost cracked when Nathan woke up. He had been in the middle of explaining things to a dazed, barely alert Nathan, when his hands started to tremble. It happened right after he learned Nathan’s chord had ruptured, and in front of the Explosions and Ms. Remeltindtdrinc, and although it was only a brief deferment of his usual character, Charles worried all those involved sensed his concern, his fear of the unknown.

He couldn’t risk letting that happen again.

A nurse finally approached from the side. “He’s awake now,” she announced. “And he asked for you specifically.”

Charles closed his eyes. Fear racked his chest, clawing for release at the news. His throat dried and tightened, and Charles had to spend a few seconds in his seat, mentally preparing himself for the difficult scene ahead. Pickles was hurt, he reminded himself, but he was alive. He told himself he would not break this time. Nathan was already so confused when he returned, and while he expressed little during their one-sided conversation, Charles knew the break in character affected him.

He would not repeat the same mistake with Pickles.

Charles stood up and faced the nurse. “Take me to him.”

The walk to the hospital wing lasted forever, or at least longer than Charles remembered when he had first taken the journey to the room, running alongside the nurses and keeping pace with the hospital gurney. Charles was grateful fate allotted him enough time to swallow his fear, to remove the tired visage he’d donned since discovering Magnus and Nathan at the remains of Mordhaus. After interrogating Hammersmith and learning about the song he played, Charles went straight to work: calling close friends and relatives to take the long pilgrimage to the hospital where all the members were carefully placed once they had finished materializing back into the world of the living, and making the necessary travel between Mordhaus, the hotel, and here–all in the middle of a massive thunderstorm. The first few days were touch and go. Driving through a storm to the ruins to see if anyone had appeared, and constantly checking on Magnus for additional information, only to be met with aggression and accusations. Picking up family members proved to be another difficult ordeal, as Charles had to be the bearer of bad news and warn them of conditions of each member was in, and how it affected their ability to speak, move, or even remain conscious. After a long week, that heavy mask that left him worn, exhausted and lacking proper constitution. Charles wished the walk to Pickles’ room was longer, because when he arrived Charles still felt the drag under his eyes, the dry ends each time he blinked, and his heart throbbing with fear over whatever condition Pickles was in–certainly not the best!

Charles swallowed, held in a deep breath, then made his way inside the room.

“Pickles?” he called, voice coming close to cracking once he saw the curtains surrounding the hospital bed.

“…Charles?” The weakened voice tore at Charles’ heartstrings. He swallowed again, pushing down the desire to run, to tear at the curtain and snatch up the man who, at any moment, might disappear with the rains.

Charles gently pulled the curtain aside, lips pressed firmly and eyes unwavering as he unveiled Pickles lying beneath him. The man was covered up in that too-thin hospital garb and blanket combo, made even more useless thanks to a set of casts and devices that elevated the afflicted appendages. He was battered, bruised, and suffered burns in various places. Charles watched Pickles’ good hand lift a few inches, middle and index straining up and aimed shakenly at him, before it became too much for Pickles to control and dropped them.

 _Almost_. Charles bit his inner cheek, fighting against the pain. _Almost._

Despite his condition, Pickles managed a hoarse chuckle. “Heh, heh.” He stared up at Charles and, not detecting the man’s inner turmoil, cracked a misshaped grin. “Now…there’s a sight… fer sore eyes.”

Charles pushed out a smile. “I could say the same myself.” He swallowed again, choking down the surmounting tremble, but succumbed to a sniff. “You’re alive,” he said in a hushed voice.

“Must be,” Pickles replied tenderly. “I mean… only other option… is heaven, an’ I don’ see me pullin’… that off.” He licked his dry lips, eyes closing as his tongue dragged over cracked and singed flesh. “That… or this is… the start of Doc Off…” Pickled stopped to cough. Charles reached for a napkin, a plastic up for water, but Pickles shook his head into the pillow. “Doc Offdensen’s… routine check-up dream.”

The joke, no matter how sweetly intended, failed to provide Charles a sense of security. Nevertheless, he held on to his smile, nodding politely at Pickles’ remark before pulling a chair to sit beside his bed.

He placed a hand on top of Pickles’ resting leg. “You must have questions,” he started, noting how his voice shook as Pickles’ expression turned hurt when he tried bringing his good hand up again to rest some fingers on top of Charles’. There was discomfort behind each movement, Charles thought as he juggled between the pale fingers begging for his touch, the heart rate monitor that increased with each pained attempt, and the vibrating windows revealing a slight change in the accumulation of storm clouds. He would need to call for additional assistance, perhaps an increase in morphine dosage once he was finished debriefing with Pickles.

“Yeah,” Pickles admitted weakly. “I do. What’s… fer dinner?”

He chuckled again, only this time Charles found it too difficult to pretend it was alright. His glasses fogged with heat, and his eyes and face burned at the joke that, in any other circumstance, he’d roll his eyes at, or maybe offer a pity laugh before changing the subject.

Charles hurried to fix his composure. “Pickles… you’re aware what’s going on, right now?” he asked, and watched when Pickles slowly bobbed his head, movement turning more restrained as the pain from a long battle started to return and wrack his weakened form.

“Yeah, I’m back.” The answer came as smoothly as ever, lacking the heaving breaths and squinted eyes that struggled keeping it all together. Instead, Charles was welcomed with that familiar grin, toothy incisors and lively green eyes that glowed under the intense hospital lighting. He slipped forward, hurt and captivated by that familiar look Charles feared he’d never see again. Now close, Pickles summoned the last of his strength, and pushed the tip of his middle finger against Charles’ palm: a silent plea for him to take his frail hand in his own.

Charles bit his tongue, struggling to maintain his senses once he had Pickles’ fingers wrapped around his hand. He gave the limp appendage a squeeze, and saw Pickles’ eyes well up.

Pickles smiled up at him. “Hell couldn’… hold us ferever… _Charlie_.”

Pressure built behind Charles’ eyes. That stupid nickname that he tolerated, grown accustomed and learned to favor was sung again, spoken after several weeks of unending silence. Charles wanted to hear it again, to ask Pickles to repeat that statement one more time, only this time add the promise that this was it, that once the storm was over, and that Pickles and the others would remain.

But how could he know for sure? Charles knew nothing of the song that accidentally initiated the ritual, the storm that magically brought back each member just alive enough to survive the trip to the hospital before being placed on life support, and whether any of this would be forever, or until the rains ended.

“I’m glad you’re taking this well,” Charles said, fighting back the twitch of his lower lip when Pickles’ index finger gave a mild wiggle into his hand. “But, there’s a lot we need to discuss.” Pickles exhaled through his nose. Charles felt another finger shake under him, requesting for more affection instead of the usual banter of prophecies. As much as it hurt, Charles chose to ignore it. “Pickles, I need your help. There’s a lot of unknown factors we need to consider, and you’re the only one awake who can help me piece it together,” he said in a semi-confessional, and barely professional mannter. “Nathan’s awake, but he can’t talk, and the others are still–”

Pickles shut his eyes. “Charles…be quiet.”

Charles ceased, staring eyes agape at Pickles. “Excuse me?”

“I said… be quiet.” Pickles heaved another sigh. He turned as best he could, opening eyes filling with tears as he painfully sucked in enough air to get him through the next sentence. “Kiss me,” he wheezed out, tears falling from the corners of his eyes. “Lemme know this ain’t a dream.”

Charles saw the tears, and pressed his lips into a thin line, feeling his heart tremble and weep for Pickles. In all the years they spent together, Pickles head never sounded so desperate, had looked so small and feeble, and Charles only had himself to thank for it.

“Of course,” he said, voice shaking with guilt, fear, and adoration as he drew near and hovered over Pickles’ debilitated state. Carefully, he lowered, lightly brushing his lips against Pickles’ as a warning, a test as to whether Pickles could even handle physical contact without it causing additional pain. He felt the collective heat, the spark and drag of Pickles’ goatee, and the pointed tip of his upper lip, and in that moment, heard Pickles’ request repeat in his head, and dropped into a kiss.

Pickles grunted a sound underneath before letting it flow into a needy hum. Charles listened, feeling his head spin as Pickles filled his stiffened, awkward kiss with flaming passion and reverence, pulling Charles’ bottom lip between his own. There was barely any strength behind the move, but Charles could feel it race through his mouth, down his throat and inject deep into his heart. The trembling fingers wiggled again in his palm, and this time Charles couldn’t hold it together, and he pushed into Pickles, eyes shutting and failing miserably to keep the tears hidden. His throat locked, and though he parted his lips to allow Pickles to playfully nip and suck, to hum more pleasing, lively sounds that Charles had missed so desperately, he found that he couldn’t breathe or think straight past feeling Pickles alive and connected with him.

Pickles was alive. Pickles was here.

Charles stopped the kiss. Not by his own accord, but because the thought had proved too much for him, and despite being so happy, so relieved that Pickles was here, couldn’t keep his mouth from forming an ugly scowl, mouth agape and letting out staggered, shaking breaths. He covered it, smothering his cries as best he could, and Charles tried to take his other to wipe away the stream of tears that flowed freely from the corner of his eyes, but Pickles three fingers curled into his palm, stopping him from going any further.

“S’okay, Charles,” Pickles whispered from his bed, and when Charles looked down, saw Pickles' pleased expression stained red, and possessing a thin stream of tears running down the side of his face. “M’feelin’… the same. S’okay.”

Charles sniffed, blinking madly in a sad attempt to see through his fogging glasses. Pain continued to pour forth, and a cathartic sense overtook him as his hand grew limp, letting the occasional curl of wiggle from Pickles’ fingers remind him that they were together.

“Come over here…” Pickles begged, massaging his index finger against the center of Charles’ palm. “I won’t… bite. Too weak!” 

Charles let out a loud wail, this time bringing both hands to lift his glasses away and wipe the increasing flow of tears. He dropped down, resting close to where Pickle’s hand lay, and he cried. He cried and spit out Pickles’ name between each sorry heave, and he felt Pickles’ finger continue to brush against his hair and forehead, reminding him he was still there, and that, for now, there would be no talks about gods, about being resurrected, about the storm that was drastically decreasing into typical winter rainfall, and whether their reunion was permanent, or would end once the sun arose and dried the rain and tears away.

There was just them, and now.


	6. One Day We'll Be Stars (Nategaar)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Romance Under the Stars

The Falcon could not withstand the heat that ripped through earth’s atmosphere, and the sound of metal turning, massive plates groaning and giving under the increasing pressure, could be heard all throughout the ship. And yet it persisted, chasing after the increasing heatwave that only grew more tumultuous and unbearable, turning the band’s one way ride into a giant, flying oven; a coffin that would no doubt cook them alive if there weren’t other, greater issues at hand. A wave of demonic evil swept across the darkening skies, igniting the dwindling oxygen in an immense flurry of wild fire that struck the Falcon’s side. Emergency lights flashed, and amidst the chaos, the cracking glass panels and increasing light as the Falcon drew nearer its goal, all Nathan could think about was how nice the stars looked tonight.

Stars of prophecies aside, just about everything else in the sky appeared the same. Each bright dot flickered, shining a once insignificant beacon of hope, now so impactful as time began to drag. Slow. Solidify. Nathan could feel it slipping before him, coming to a still as his eyes locked with what he hoped was part of the dipper. He didn’t care which one it was, so long as there was something recognizable within the black, empty sea of space. Something to impart him a warm sense of nostalgia, familiarity. Peace.

Skiwsgaar’s hand squeezed his. “What ams you lookinks at?”

“The stars,” Nathan answered without breaking contact.

A final decision had been made, though it’s unclear when each member gained their resolve. Nathan’s confident Toki and Pickles’ made theirs before setting foot on the Falcon, and Murderface, despite his lamenting, had become increasingly determined on the ride up. Nathan knew this was it, accepted it as such, but Skwisgaar by his side, he wavered. He didn’t think he would. Nothing more brutal than dying for your planet, right? And with the coolest guy he’s known? Nathan wished he could consider himself so lucky to be affronted both honors in a single evening.

Otherworldly heat flared across the cracking screen. Nathan glanced, watching the light caste a glare over Skwisgaar’s sharp contours.

This would be the last time he’d enjoy such sights.

“Remember when we passed out drunk looking at stars?” He mentioned it absentmindedly, as a filler to help cover the dread he was sure _Skwisgaar_ was feeling. Skiwsgaar squeezing his hand? No, should be the other way around. Or maybe Skwisgaar was trying to reassure him… did any of it matter now? 

Skwisgaar uttered an airy chuckle. “We does that all the times, Nathans.”

True. Nathan cannot count the times he and Skwisgaar passed out drunk during “x” activity, and when Skwisgaar brought it up, was almost taken aback by the remark. Then Skwisgaar laughed– _actually laughed_ –at Nathan, and also at his own comment. It was a hearty, boisterous laugh, one so powerful it clogged Nathan’s overwhelmed senses. A brilliant sound that deafened the flaring alarm. A row of shiny, white teeth that blinded the red flashing lights. A man that soothed his nerves with his mere presence.

“Sorry,” Skwisgaar said, shaking his laughter away with a few sharp flicks of his head. Each one produces a serene, blond flash that Nathan greatly preferred over the impending lightning storm. “I was just thinkinks. All of them silly memories…” Skwisgaar’s eyed began to strain, and his bottom lip sank. Nathan gripped Skwisgaar’s hand, sending a silent, but firm order to finish the comment, no matter how painful. Skwisgaar’s head shakes a nod. “I thinks I will miss thems very much.”

“Yeah, well.” Nathan stopped. He stared at the vast, darkening sky, watching the blue begin to sink beneath them, replaced with the black void of space. A sharp pain shot through his heart at the sight of the millions of stars across the universe. Stars that he wished on, counted, and stars that lighted him the way home. Stars that shined when he and Skwisgaar kissed, glimmered when they fell in love, and stars that ignited in fury whenever they performed. The agony persisted, and Nathan relinquished his hand from Skwisgaar to pull him close. Their hips bumped, and Skwisgaar wrapped his arm round Nathan’s waist, and although the screen was almost completely warped from the mounting pressure and heat, the two remained together and stared at their battered version of the night sky. “They were all good,” Nathan stated, feeling Skwisgaar’s cheek brush against his. “Each one of them.”

Skwigaar rested his head into Nathan’s shoulder. “Mhmm.”

Time continued to slow, reaching a near standstill. Nathan knew he needed to call the band to order soon, though when was still up in the air. Air? Sky? They were in space now. They were all amongst the stars. He and Skwisgaar were surrounded by the stars. Nothing mattered now. Not even time.

Time…

“Skwisgaar?”

“Yeah, Nathans?”

“I…think.” Nathan’s throat tightened. Skwisgaar shifted, pressing his weight into Nathan. “I think I’m really going to miss that,” he confessed, and felt Skwisgaar’s hair drape and spill over his shoulder as he turned to stare up at him. “Us. Together. Doing shit like that.”

The moment’s ruined, Nathan thought. Soiled with too much emotion. Stupid feelings that raised up fear and doubt, longing and so many unspoken words Nathan failed to get across with his lyrics, messages that could only be relayed through private stares or hands reaching and sending notes of desire. This wasn’t the time for such messages. No hidden notes, declarations of love behind horrendous demonic screams or fast-paced guitar riffs that left fingers raw and bleeding. Now was not the time for doubt, for second-guessing and silently pleading for time to just freeze so that he could properly formulate the words he needed to say.

But Nathan knew he could have a million years, and it would never be enough to fix the pain in his chest, and in a few seconds, he would have no choice but to let Skwisgaar go.

Skwisgaar rested his chin on top of Nathan’s shoulder. “Nathan?”

“Yeah?”

His lips pursed into a thinning, pale crescent. “Them stars looks very beau-tificals.”

Nathan hissed, stopping an exhale from turning into an angry wail. The smile he donned filled his mind with so many words, so many useless words that Nathan knew he’d never write down in time. He gave Skwisgaar a sharp nod.

“Yeah,” he said, then turned, brushing his nose across Skwisgaar’s silken crown. Nathan pushed his lips into the center, producing an audible kiss that could be heard through the vibrating metal. “You’re not half-bad looking yourself.”

Skwisgaar’s arms squeezed his waist. “I could say them same things abouts you.”

Time. Nathan remembered a time where a lightyear was unfathomable, when such distances could only be “explained” with fancy programs and numbers. Formulas had always been meaningless to him; it was only through experience that Nathan could truly understand the significance behind such terms. As the Falcon continued forward, disregarding pieces of its tearing wing, or outer layer chipping away, Nathan finally got what it meant for something to stretch on and on, maybe even forever. 

Perhaps this will last forever, Nathan pondered as the weight of his body began to lift. How perfect would it be if he and Skwisgaar’s final seconds together could last a million lightyears, could spread across the cosmos and be seen and wished upon forever? Was that too gay, or just too much for ask for?

The Falcon’s front peeled under the heat, and finally gave way, and the massive beast ahead unleashed a final blast of lightning towards them.

And then they ascended.

Just as planned, they united against the demon, and with their combined powers, pushed back the evil storm with one of their own. Dethlights flashed across space, swallowing up the lightning, thunder and flames. Their powers fighting, consuming and mixing with Salacia’s resulted in a massive reaction. Metal melted, evaporated under the unfathomable heat that coursed through Nathan’s entire being, that sweltered and scorched each band member. Just like the Falcon before them, they persisted, consuming all the evil in their path.

Such combined power proved to be too much, and as Nathan began to feel his every atom give under the intense, magical force, somehow found and pulled Skwisgaar into his chest, embracing him one final time before their physical forms ceased to exist. A massive pentagram filled the sky, burning through the booming thunderclouds. The gigantic, unholy marker remained for some time, fending off the residual magic that once threatened the planet, spreading across the damaged atmosphere and blanketing it with its force. It soon vanished, replaced with the promising formation of rain clouds that healed the planet with its soothing rain.

And, that too, ended.

The clouds shifted, shrank and returned to the sea from which they came, unveiling the magnificent array of purple and white. Stars glowed, radiated across the clear night sky, shining their brilliant light over earth, and other, greater pieces shot across the cosmos, stretching long tails of burning light and vanishing once they breached the atmosphere.

Underneath an old, abandoned wooden set of high school bleachers, Nathan drunkenly peered outward, head lifted to the sky. His heavy jaw sank, and a harsh stare turned agape at the many shooting stars that birthed and died before him. He rested a hand against the ancient, rusted support beams. A single, massive light burst through the sky, soaring across Nathan’s line of view before disappearing into the darkness. Its sudden death sent a peculiar, if not melancholic, sensation up Nathan’s spine. 

“What ams you lookinks at?”

Somewhat startled, Nathan turned around, facing Skwisgaar. The man sat under one of the better covered portions, and was nursing the last of the cold cans they had taken with them on their objectiveless adventure. Despite sequestering under the more covered portion of the bleachers, the man’s long hair was drenched, sticking to parts of his face. Under the shadowed frame, Nathan likened Skwisgaar to a handsome phantom, an angelic, but haunting figure that could lure him into the dark recess of the bleacher if he so commanded.

“A star,” he answered without breaking contact.

Skwisgaar’ eyes reflected, glowed menacingly like a tomcat under the shadows. “Instead of looking at silly stars, we could be... _admiring_ each other’s more, ja?” He slipped his arms over a leg, then rested his chin on top of his knee as Nathan drew closer. “After alls,” Skwisgaar continued, voice dropping into a sultry whisper as Nathan’s eyes set upon his glowing form, “one day we wills be real stars…”


	7. A Fierce Kiss (Magtok)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the one M-rated fic in this series. I swear it was only supposed to be about kissing, but after I published it, decided I wanted to add more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fierce kiss that ends with a bite on the lip, soothing it with a lick.
> 
> Warning: Contains hair pulling, biting, a bit of blood, swearing and fucking

It was nearing two, and after a hearty swim and a healthy serving of alcohol, there came a desire for sustenance. Toki and Magnus barely made it to the top floor of the suite before the former fell victim to tipsy fingers reaching and clumsily playing with his hair, confused when they were met with knots instead of the preferred, delighted shudder. Toki slid the card key into the lock, eyes fluttering and shoulders rising when Magnus pressed his soaked shirt against his bare back, and mouth parting into a sigh when the intrusive feel was coupled with hot breaths splashing over his bare, wet flesh.

They fell into a passionate struggle, tripping over each other and making it as far as the living room before it became apparent that they won’t be leaving anytime soon. Magnus barely gave Toki time to hang their towels before luring him back inside with a tempting chuckle, and ensnaring him when he tried reaching for the room’s phone. Trapped, Toki grinned nervously under Magnus’ hold. A hot exhale splashed over his shoulder. Excitement bubbled, and a tingle raced up Toki’s chest and throat once the distinct feel of teeth grazed his shoulder. They sink, and Toki dipped his head back, eyes closing at the presence, and his mind filling with instinctual want, but the smell of chlorine soaking their bodies kept him from sinking into that wondrous daze.

“We hasn’t taken a showers yet,” he stated, and fell into a warm, heated sigh when lips pulled around the afflicted area, shifting into a possessive, hungry kiss.

Magnus blemished Toki’s shoulder blade, covering it with wet, pink mars _. “And?”_ he asked after starting a satisfying trail of loving bites.

His other hand peeled at the elastic waistband, fingers taunting, teasing and wriggling their way inside. Toki fought, fidgeted and happily submitted under his touch, going still once Magnus freed a hand to lift away some heavy clumps of wet hair to better continue with his assault, and Toki’s hips jerking into an uncontrolled motion of desperate quakes the second Magnus’s other hand took hold of him.

“You said you was hungry,” Toki complained, voice hitching into an airy sigh at the feel of fingers racing up his sensitive organ

“I am,” Magnus replied haughtily. Chin on top of Toki’s shoulder, his eyes fell to the rising tent developing just below the younger man’s heaving belly button. His lips pursed against pale skin beginning to shift into a vibrant shade of pink, and cackled. “Figured I’d have a little snack beforehand.”

Magnus can practically taste the blush radiating from Toki. The younger man continued to shrink underneath him, delectable muscles quivering and folding, touch-hungry body succumbing to the pressure.

Toki whined, head sinking and becoming increasingly aware of the day’s activities, and how woefully unprepared he was for Magnus. Blushing a little, he muttered, “Ams not clean…”

Magnus pressed his nose against Toki’s neck, savoring the mild gasp the cold tip ignited. “And you definitely won’t be when I’m through with you.”

That proved difficult to argue against. Toki sympathized with Magnus. He understood the _pressure_ and loneliness that developed after waiting for so long for intimacy, but Toki still desired a quick reprieve; a moment to clean up and appear in better grace before Magnus.

“Lets me order foods first,” he said, staggering the last two words when he felt the pull, the pressure of a hand pleasuring and filling his scrambled brain with yearning. The thought of a shower fuzzed. The mind jumbled, forgot the developing growl in his stomach and fixed on how good Magnus’ hand played with him. Toki pressed his mouth shut, hoping to conceal a groan. “S-so we haves something to eat when we ams finished.”

He failed to bring up the want for a shower, but behind him, Magnus chuckled. “If you must,” he said, whispering hot words straight into Toki’s overly sensitive ears, and causing a tremble that vibrated down his spine. He relinquished his grasp, and Toki sighed a breath of wanton need and relief. Mind still clouded, Toki squirmed free from his captor’s hold, giggling when he felt some residual fingers tease him one final time before grabbing the phone and hurriedly calling for service 

The line picked up. “Hello?” a clear, friendly female voice responded.

“Yes, this ems room service?” Toki fanned the side of his face, unaware of the heavy, crumbled smack of a wet shirt being tossed to the floor. “Ams hungry. Cans you sends me some foods?”

“Of course. What would you like, Mr. Wartooth?”

Toki’s eyes glazed, his mind going through an assortment of delicious snacks he could freely order without complaint or concern. Menus or not, there was nothing stopping him from asking for literally anything. An old promise from a several weeks ago flashed across his sight, reminding him to try and order something halfway decent. He was trying to get Magnus to make healthier choices… which sadly meant he would need to model the correct behavior and pray it rubbed off at the right moment.

“Uhm, cans I have a salads?” Toki asked, face turning a little as he imagined up some bland, green piles of leaves. “Oh, but nots a boring salad. Puts meat in it.”

Suddenly, the cool air behind him vanished, and Toki felt the gentle return of fingers resting on top of his waist. “That can be arranged,” Magnus whispered into his ear, and then followed with his hands gripping Toki’s rear, squeezing it and snickering when Toki’s jaw went slack with shock.

“Come again?” the receptionist asked.

Blushing, Toki tried slipping away from Magnus and his haunting chuckle. “Uhms, makes it chicken, please,” he hastily replied whilst rubbing his sore rear. “Nots boring grilled chickens though. And, uhhh, can I has some fries? Oh, and a strawberries milkshake?”

“Certainly. Will that be all?”

“Oh, holds on a seconds.” Wearing a strained, somewhat annoyed grin, Toki tried turning to offer the phone up to Magnus, but was met with lips mashing sloppily against his own. Long, coarse hairs rubbed up his chin as Magnus held him in place, pulling in Toki’s extending pout with his teeth.

The phone fell, handset left swinging by the cord.

“Sir?”

Toki barely caught the woman’s voice in the backdrop, and paid no mind as he was turned around, pushed and forced against a wall, Magnus’ hold on him never breaking during the entire event. The front of Magnus teeth lure him closer, pressuring Toki to comply, to submit under the will of each curious finger. He whined another complaint, but was smothered once long fingers brushed down his sides, tickling and taunting already strained nerves. Their naked chests brushed against one another as Toki lifted a shaking arm, wrapped it around Magnus’ frame and pulled him closer. He moaned against the growing friction caused by their heated bodies; what was once damp was now dry, and Toki could feel the natural drag of Magnus’ skin rubbing against his, and curls of thick hair cascading over his barren, shaking chest.

“Mr. Wartooth?”

Magnus bit Toki’s bottom lip again, harder this time. Enough to warrant another moan, a rise in temperature, a drastic flow southwards. The mild pain flickered, melted with their shared heat as Magnus’ incisors, sensing Toki’s complacency, started to ease their grip. The hands continued to fondle, left returning to the front of Toki’s trunks and applying steady pressure, and right trailing gracefully over Toki’s stiffened jaw, fingers coming to a delicate curl right as Magnus parted, taking in a quick breath before returning to Toki’s wet swollen lip and soothing it with a gentle purr. Toki moaned under it, feeling Magnus’ lips part once more to breathe it in, taste and savor him. He closed the gap again, and Toki prepared himself for a second onslaught, only to feel the comforting pressure of a tongue grazing the afflicted area, warming and easing the distant pain that was quickly turning into a fleeting memory.

Hanging off Magnus, Toki smiled at the wet tickle, at the hand that massaged him and tore away any rational thought, but as the tongue flicked at the center of his lips, a single thought arose. He waited for that final lap and, once Magnus was close, nipped at him, returning that bite with another. He watched Magnus’ eyes open in surprise, and felt his breath shift, quicken with excitement at the sight of Magnus’ pupil sharpening against the pain. Toki pulled Magnus closer, letting go of Magnus’s tongue just so he could catch his parting mouth into his.

Hand still jerking him, Toki concentrated as best he could to coax Magnus’ tongue back into his mouth, moaning sweet sounds after each grope so that the man would get cocky. He bit him again when he tried, harder this time, and tasted Magnus moaning into his mouth. It tasted so sweet, and felt so good going down his throat. Toki bit harder, eyes glimmering with depraved satisfaction once Magnus’s started to tremble, sweat and finally part.

“Damn,” he said, then brought out the tip of his tongue, rolling over itself to taste the blood Toki had drawn. Toki licked his own as Magnus sucked on his ailing tongue. He laughed. “Did I ever change your mind!”

Toki drew closer. “You ams very persuasive.”

“And so are you.” Magnus’ grin flared with desire. His hand slid over Toki’s shaft, drawing heat and an aching throb at the base. Still nursing his own blood, and sensing the rising adrenaline shared between them, Magnus brushed his face against Toki’s. “Think you can spin this in your favor, hmm?”

Toki wasn’t prepared for the question, but now that it was up there, only wanted to prove Magnus that he could. He already forced the man into a pool, and he had tasted blood. Getting him on all fours would be cakewalk–

“Mr. Wartooth? Are you there? Is everything alright?”

Both turned, eyes cast down on the swaying phone. They had nearly forgotten it, and only now were aware every action and word spoken between them was being misinterpreted by a third, uninvolved party member. Magnus let go of Toki’s dick, then nudged him towards the phone. 

Toki rolled his eyes. “Just gets a burger and sodas!” he yelled. 

Magnus nudged him. “No tomatoes.”

“With no tomatoes!” Toki added, then, catching Magnus in the middle of an approving nod, slid his large hand up his neck and grabbed Magnus by the roots, basking in his satisfying hiss before forcing him into another fierce kiss.

* * *

The bed was less than three feet away. Magnus knew Toki yanking him to the floor the second he left the bathroom, fixed him into place before taking him right in front of the bed was the guy’s funny little way of getting back to him for the embarrassing call. Toki kissed him all the way down, felt up his naked form and prepped him with such affection Magnus wondered if Toki had changed his mind last minute, or was fatigued. An unannounced change in temperament flashed before Magnus, and the same loving hands that massaged him loose then took him by the hair again and forced him on all four, and after a quick warning, Magnus felt Toki guide himself in, pushing all his weight in top of Magnus so that he was concentrated on keeping upright and balanced.

“Oh!” Magnus’ shaking elbows pressed against the carpet, nailing digging each time Toki sank into him, lower abdomen slapping into Magnus’ ass, and assaulting his insides with an intense thrust. Shaft sank, rubbed and disappeared inside of him, vanishing into a fulfilling heat. “Oh. Oh! Toki!”

Magnus’s legs shook, hips dying to sway in harmony with Toki’s movement, only for nails to dig into his inner thighs, strong arms hoisting him back up and reminding Magnus to hold still, to bear the weight, or burden the pain. There’s not much room for freedom. Toki had him by the leg and the hair, taking a clump of the latter in a rough knot before pushing Magnus’ head into the carpet.

“Ah! Oh… _ooh_.” 

Each grind and roll hit the spot. Magnus quivered, shaking cold sweat and smiling through a pained smirk. He listened to Toki’s pants, felt his strength concentrated in the younger man’s arms, extended over him, keeping him locked, trapped. Used. Filled. God, he loved it! Magnus sighed into the carpet, breath smothered right as Toki bore into him.

“Ah.” He eyes shut at the building pressure.

Toki slowed to a stop. His hand relinquished its grasp on Magnus’ thigh, lowering and rubbing the stiffened leg and petting down damp hairs into place. “You enjoyins your snack?”

“I was until you stopped.”

A stupid thing to say to the man who was currently gripping a handful of his hair, but Magnus knew he was never one to consider his words until after they were said. As he guessed, Toki took the comment to heart, snickering above him with a relaxed, low voice that sent a chill down Magnus’ cock. The neglected head wept at the sound, the fear that filled Magnus when he felt Toki release his hair from his grip to grab the second leg. 

Toki lowered. Magnus winced, legs shaking under the building pressure and all the space in his gut vanishing, filling up with Toki.

“Ams going to make you eat them words,” he said, then gave a sharp thrust before Magnus could point out the hilarity of the remark, releasing a hiss and fingers digging into the carpet as Toki fell into a new rhythm, smacking rough into a desperate Magnus. 

“O-oh, Fuck!”

Toki left the bedroom door open, and their window was also agape. The latter is bad, but it was the open door that concerned Magnus. Whether it was a hotel clerk, klokateer, or, _god forbid_ , their damn manager, the last thing he wanted was for someone to walk in and hear him engaged in the throes of passion. They were only getting louder, Magnus suspecting he would end up giving their position away if Toki tested his durability any more than he currently was. He longed for the bed, to slip forward and give his arms a break. Toki was heavy. He was large, strong, but so damn heavy. 

He endured a solid minute of constant, deep thrashing, legs bearing through it all before it started to build and send his senses into a flutter. An overwhelming change, a pain that ceased to hurt, a throb that carried further southward, and a sigh that drenched him in a cold sweat and a burn that carried up his neck and face once he recognized the impending climax. 

Above, Toki sensed the change, felt Magnus tremble around him, pulling him further inward. 

He patted Magnus’ thigh. “So close,” he said, smiling when he caught Magnus peering up at him with his good eye. Toki lessened his grip, rubbing both legs as he carefully held to the same rhythm. “You wants your snack?” 

Magnus’ face dragged against the carpet. “Mhmm.”

“Where you wants your snack?” Toki asked. “Come ons, tell Toki.” He slowed his pace, snickering when Magnus grunted a moan that was smothered into the flooring.

Magnus dug his nails at the agonizing shift. He could feel every inch pulling from him, tormenting him with dull friction that was taking him nowhere. A hand trailed up his thigh, coming close to touching his neglected cock, but teasingly shifted inward, lifting Magnus back into positions.

“Rights in here?” Toki asked, and Magnus felt another rough jab deep inside him, nearly causing his legs to slide and fold under the shock that rolled across his sensitive nerves.

His eyes shut at the pressure. “Oh, right _there_.”

“Not your mouths?” Toki thrust again, returning his pace back to that unforgiving rhythm, and smiling delightedly when he saw Magnus’s mouth part into a shameless grin. “Ams you sure? Must not be so hungry anymores.”

Magnus sighed an airy whine, shook under his entrapment and ecstasy burning, magnifying inside of him till he could see coming forth, spilling out and spreading across his body. Toki kept on going at him, and each time, left Magnus burning. He was on fire. The heat was too much, the sensation inside of him using and wearing him thin, went numb and white.

“Oh, fuck!” Magnus slipped forward, elbows giving once it hit. Toki held him by the hips, sighing above and fucking him through the delightful shiver, the involuntary, throbbing, pulling and sucking that rendered his entire lower half nothing more than a wet, fulfilled hole. Heat seeped through his pores, cascading Magnus’s in a dark blush as he fell, drowning in his orgasm. “Oh. Don’t stop. Don’t stop…”

It was the least Toki could do, and Magnus thanked the stars that Toki didn’t stop fucking him until he was drained. And he kept on going after that, not decreasing his speed or intensity, but having the decency to shift, account for the weakened legs that couldn’t carry either of their weight, and repositioned them so they were resting on their sides. Magnus kept quiet, only emitting the occasional sigh of gasp in between thrusts, but was relieved he could rest. He stared out, back at the bed and its serene state, wondering to himself if he’d deny Toki the same pleasures later tonight. Unlikely, given his recent change in temperament, but the fantasy still drove him to smile through the sore muscles, Toki’s fastened pace, and his accompanied whispers, begging Magnus to “takes it all,” and “keeps it all inside.” Arms coiled around his limp form, ensnaring him again, holding him down, and Magnus felt that intense stab, that hot burn that awoke fresh memories of pleasure, only for it to seep and drench him in another wave of cold, sweaty shudders. As deep as Toki was, Magnus was sure he could feel that subtle heat stick against his inner walls, and when Toki pulled out, and Magnus reflexively responded to meet the younger man’s command, felt that presence haunt him, coating him entirely and threatening to pour out if he wasn’t careful enough.

Toki hovered over him, recovered quickly and was awaiting Magnus’ return before engaging in that sickly-sweet aftercare that he loved to apply. Magnus lay on the floor for a while longer, relaxing under the tempered air, and only coming to a rise when he thought he heard knocking. A series of kisses, swollen lips pursing over his shoulder, neck and eventually mouth, refreshed Magnus enough to not mind their shared moisture, the dull pain when he sat upright, or the silly questions that Toki always felt the need to ask when they finished.

Toki hugged him as he tried to get up. “Ams good?”

“Mhmm.”

He stopped Magnus from entering the bathroom to gently guide him in the direction of the bed. Like before, Toki held him, taking small steps until they somehow ended up on the soft blankets. A few seconds passed. Magnus stared at the opened window, listening to the winds and Toki reaching for the sheets, ready to cover them both at the order if asked.

Then he felt Toki flops beside him. “You okays?”

“I’m fine,” Magnus replied, smiling as Toki’s nose dragged over his neck, open mouth breathing in their combined scent, frowning at first until he read Magnus and determined he was telling the truth.

The food arrived shortly after, with a klokateer knocking and, after checking through the contents and determining them safe for consumption, served the trolley up to the bed. By that point, Magnus was covered, blanketed under layers of soft sheets. Toki would’ve tucked him in if left to his own accord, but thankfully Magnus stopped it from getting that far. Still, the whispers, pleas for honesty and worried stares, no matter how frequent, were gentle reminders that Magnus wasn’t aware he needed until the trolley came into view, when he hid under the comforter while Toki handled the gears. A few seconds later, the sheets lifted, revealing a hand waving a glass of coke, ice clinking and the drink emitting that syrupy sweet smell of cherry flavoring. 

“Drinks something.” Toki smiled, turning to straw to Magnus. “Ams good for you.” 

His smile widened when Magnus sat upright, long, boney fingers reaching and folding under his hands. Toki sat next to Magnus, arm extended as he pulled a handful of fries from a platter, stuffed his mouth and stared out the window.

“Thank you.”

Toki turned and found Magnus looking at him, still cradling his drink. Beaming, he replied, “No problems.”

The two went back to their meal. Toki took the plate of fries and fished through them, handing the occasional dark fry, curled and browned from marinating in the oil for too long, and offered them up to Magnus.

“S’nice view of the ocean,” Magnus commented. As he left the bed Toki watched his every step, only calming down once Magnus finished scrutinizing his meal and took it back to the bed with him.

Toki bobbed his head while finishing off his fries. “Yeah. I wanted to takes you theres tomorrow, but since we went swimmins today…”

“Who says we still can’t go?”

“Hmm?”

Magnus rested his head against Toki’s. Long, wavy hair fell over Toki’s shoulder. “We can still go, if you want. Tomorrow.”

“You sures?” 

“Yeah,” Magnus replied, eyes on the shifting palms swaying in the far distance. Toki couldn’t read minds, but was sure Magnus meant it when he said it. The calm, weary smile told him enough. “I still gotta get back at you for that bullshit you pulled at the pool.”

Toki snickered, then gave Magnus a light shove. “You wish.”

“Just you wait, Toki,” Magnus warned. He placed his plate aside, then, returning to Toki, whispered, “Revenge–” 

Toki shoved Magnus again, then, taking a page from his book, pushed his food away to meet his growing laughter. He hovered over Magnus, waiting for him to try again, and smothered his lips before they could dare finish that atrocious sentence, and instead, filled them up with artificial sweeteners, cherry flavoring mixed with salt. Their fingers intertwined, and Toki sucked away the bad jokes till the only thing left in Magnus’ vocabulary were those three wonderful that spilled forth once Toki parted, his body silhouetted against the tropical backdrop, and eyes aglow in complete adoration.


	8. A kiss given without thinking (Charles/Abigail)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hello/good-bye kiss that is given without thinking - where neither person thinks twice about it.
> 
> Charles/Abigail

Another all-nighter, Abigail muses as she saves and exits a document. A glance of her wristwatch reveals it is nearly midnight. She expels an amused sigh. Fourteen hours today. Not quite as impressive as her seventeen-hour record, but still worthy of a few self-praises. She mentally pats herself on the back, shuts down her laptop and begins packing her belongings, ready to head to her room when the door to her office clicks open. Her head raises, and she sees Charles slowly making his entrance, looking poignantly reserved, but carrying a frightening weight on each stiffened shoulder.

“Long night?” Abigail asks, smiling clearly as Charles takes a seat in front of her desk. 

Charles rolls his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes. “When is it anything but?” he remarks, shutting them as he presses the appendage into the sockets.

“Would you like to talk about it?"

Charles ceases his complaints, raises his head and stares auspiciously at Abigail. Her smile nets his eyes, and without breaking away, he answers, “With you? Always.”

Like always, his response comes off as overly formal. Even his stare, though expressive at its most center, gave off a natural severity to it. Years of important planning, business ventures, and life-threatening scenarios have left each pupil permanently radiating solemnity.

It takes an expert to read between the lines.

Abigail raises a finger. “One sec,” she says, then leaves her desk and heads to one of the shelves tucked in the corner of her office. She picks up a bottle of gin. “Martini?”

He raises one as well; first, to protest, but drops it as the thought lingers. With a glance around the room, Charles relaxes into his seat. “Why not?”

“How dirty do you like it?”

“I like the alcohol to speak for itself.”

Abigail pours an equal amount of vermouth and gin into a mixer. “Coming right up.”

Charles listens to her pour the concoction. A few seconds, then ice clinks into the steel mixer. His eyes shut as she gives it a shake, and when he opens them, smells the subtle tang of green olives wafting in the air.

Holding the drinks, Abigail passes the desk, taking a seat by the dying fire. She places the glasses on a coaster, then reclines into a sofa, resting one leg on top the other. Her tired eyes close, and for a while, it’s the sound of crackling wood and Charles’ footsteps approaching her. She waits until she feels the pressure of the neighboring cushion shift, then, without opening her eyes, asks, “what was it?” 

Charles picks up his drink, then stares into the flames. “The boys tried turning the hallways into a slip-n-slide, with alcohol as their liquid of choice.”

“Sounds like quite the havoc.” Abigail smiles as she hears Charles sigh next to her. She opens her eyes wide enough to catch the glimmer of weakened flames on her right, then runs to her left to rest a hand on Charles’ lap. “Let me guess,” she says, “Toki and Pickles?”

Charles huffs. “ _And_ Nathan.”

“Nathan was part of it?”

“He suggested the location,” Charles replies with closed eyes. A hand drags through his furrowed brow, failing to ease the strain of the recent memory. “It was Toki’s idea, and Pickles supplied the alcohol.” 

“How very organized,” Abigail notes, then raises her glass for a sip. She stirs an olive that bobs at the bottom center while Charles contemplated his own. A snicker. “They’re evolving.”

He stops himself from taking a sip. “That’s not funny,” he warns, but she merely smiles at his frown, then rests her head on stop his shoulder. 

Dancing shadows begin to stretch as the last of the firewood snaps, cracks in half and reveals its molten red core. Abigail waits, feels the rough knob of Charles’ muscles against her temple, but doesn’t respond to it. She knows he doesn’t mean it. It’s the stress. The long, unpredictable shits that could easily result in someone’s life ending if one wasn’t careful.

Since meeting Charles, Abigail’s been nothing short of astounded. Charles’ long term connection and control over Dethklok was an impressive feat on its own; few managers had the honor of sticking with their band for such a long time. More remarkable was the empire he created since launching the band’s career. Abigail knows it’s unusual, perhaps outright insane that she’s spent several hours navigating dangerous hallways loaded with traps, conversing in meeting with klokateers who will likely die by the week’s end, or working alongside a band that seems to draw death in its wake. It is insane, but when she takes a step back and sees the results, the rising bar graphs reaching impossible levels, the scientific breakthroughs and the growing economy, she can’t but push a little more, try a little harder. She doesn’t this because she’s knows she’s part of something great, something far bigger than she can completely comprehend.

Abigail carefully brings the glass to her lips. Whatever she’s taking part in, the music she’s helping produce, none of it would be possible if it weren’t for Charles.

She sighs a refreshing breath, tasting the remains of a subtle, smooth burn. “Relax,” she says, then, with the hand resting on Charles’ leg, gives it a light pat. 

“Took an hour to clean it up.” A burning piece of wood cracks as the two sit in silence a second.

Abigail brings the hand up, locates Charles’ chin and, with just her index finger, brings it up to meet her expecting stare. “Just say the word, and I’ll have him kissing your feet when I’m done with them.”

Charles’s lidded stare glimmers under the deepening orange flare. His jaw slackens, and lips part. “There’s no need to be cruel.” 

“Are you sure?” she asks, and watches in mild amusement as Charles returns to his drink.

Martini presses under his nose, Charles takes a whiff. His eyes slowly close as he raises the glass to his lips, and take a hearty gulp. The wood cracks and embers sizzle from the center. Abigail uncrosses her legs to stretch.

Charles swallows. “You sent them to another country.”

“I did.”

“With no money or guards to look after them.”

Drink finished, Abigail takes the olive from her empty glass. “You’re correct,” she says. She bites into her olive and savors its tangy flavor.

Charles stares at the remains of his drink and shakes his head at it. At her. “And for music.”

“And I made damn good music,” Abigail declares, then wraps her arm around Charles’ neck. She pulls him in with gently, letting him consciously do the work for her. “And you need a break.”

The words come off too sultry to professional. Abigail’s aware of this, but doesn’t mind. She’s only been working at Mordhaus for a few months, but since becoming a member of the staff, has spent more than her fair share of tiresome, therapeutic nights with Charles. It had started as a mistake, him entering her office and mistaking her for a previous assistant, but sticking along to provide her some suggestions when she complained of the hours. She showed up a week later, appearing stressed, and she, remembering his service to her, offered her support. Since then, they maintained these impromptu meetings, with one appearing before the other, always unannounced, but usually asking for the same, unspoken thing. Until recently, Abigail’s ignored what it might be, but the more she dwells within Mordhaus’ cold walls, the longer she works and watches the expanding empire, and then concludes her day here, in the middle of the night, with him, Abigail isn’t sure she can remain ignorant of what she’s feeling, of why she continues to push herself all for the sake of good company.

The fire dies, and the light dims, held only by the few lamps Abigail kept on as she worked. Shadows cast over each of their forms, creating dark silhouettes that make it near impossible to read another, but Abigail is confident she sees something glimmer, a sparkle of hope that reflect in Charles’ glasses.

The door bursts open, and a klokateer steps forward. “My Lord. Madam.”

Charles breaks from Abigail. “What is it?” he asks, weary voice replaced with a more controlled tenor.

The klokateer raises a flashing, red screen. “It’s Lord Skwigelf. He, along with Lord Wartooth and Murderface–”

Sighing, Charles readies to stand up, but is met with Abigail’s arm blocking his path.

“I’ll take of it,” she declares, not looking at Charles until she leaves the seat. She buttons her suit top, runs her hand through the bottom of her weighted hair, and puts on a fresh smile. She faces Charles, appearing before him as a new, refreshed person. “Finish your drink.”

Charles frowns. He stirs the floating olive as he twirls the glass between his fingers, then, with an exhale, raises the glass and finishes the rest of his drink. Oh, so it’s like, Abigail thinks. Amused, she watches Charles come to stand. Like her, the effects of the day are washed away. He stares firmly at her. “I must insist that you let me talk to the boys.”

Abigail crosses her arms. “And I insist you let me make their remaining night hell.”

The room goes silent again. Charles narrows his eyes into a testing, but apologetic stare. Abigail easily counters it with one of her own, abundantly filled with immovable determination.

“We go together,” Charles finally announces. “I will speak with the boys.”

“And I’ll offer… _suggestions_ ,” Abigail adds, watching Charles’ expression shift from concern to approval in a matter of seconds. A snicker unfolds from her person. “And–”

_“And?”_

“And if one of them insults you,” Abigail leads, watching Charles’s brows lift at the unfinished suggestion, “then _maybe_ I come up with a suitable punishment that makes them second guess their actions?”

Charles fixes his glasses. “Nothing…drastic, alright?”

“Of course, Mr. Offdensen,” Abigail replies. It’s dark, but the few remaining embers behind her light up enough to catch the formation of a small, relieved smile. “Alright,” she says, louder so that the klokateer can here, “let’s go then!”

Charles nods. “Of course,” he responds, then offers her his hand. “Lead the way.

It’s the first time he’s offered. Abigail says nothing, but gives a proud nod, and as she turns to the turn, feels the weight of the alcohol lift her spirits, fluttering across her chest as she approaches the door. A hand brushes her, large and cooler, and when she reaches for a coat, takes it from the hanger, rises and turns, meets soft lips brushing against her.

It’s a moment in time that ends quicker than either can register, and with a klokateer describing the unfolding events, how the guitarists challenged each other to a series of games, and after a row, were evenly matched, thought it was best to drive drunk to the nearest Round One and conclude their marathon, neither has time to react, much less respond to the fading embers of affection. Abigail listens intently, and Charles by her side, neither expressing anything more than what’s expected, and nether giving the other more than the sporadic, but overly professional glance.

A hellicopter takes flight. Its passengers huddle close, standing beside one another, arm around waist, another carrying a set of binoculars to locate the three missing guitarists.

Under the roaring turbines, a hand shifts across the side, sending a welcoming shiver.

Green eyes flutter. A head rests on a shoulder, and hair pools and flows gently in the wind.

Its nearing two, and Charles finally smiles.

A klokateer assigned with cleaning enters the office sometimes later, finds the lingering warmth and empty glasses. Sensing a return, they replace the sullied glasses in preparation for round two, walk to the fireplace, and add logs and set the hearth aflame. 


	9. "Take a Deep Breath" (Magtok)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Take a deep breath" from the mental illness prompt. 
> 
> Warning: Burns; PTSD; Pain; Healing
> 
> Post Galaktikon 2 setting

There are burns, red splotches that melted away the fine, white lines that once marred Toki’s back. Magnus recalls a time where he’d occasionally face them, often in the middle of the night, and usually after waking up from a sore reminder of where a certain jagged mark originated from. There were other scars, too, ones so old they smoothened into the skin, appearing nothing more than a faint glimpse of a dark and sinister past. Magnus remembers placing a finger on one, once, when they sat near the briny water, and tracing it while listening to Toki tell him of how he had “earned” it from his father. Magnus traces another, and learns just how authoritarian the man could get when provoked. Fingers a tiny divot and unearths a depressing tale involving a hot poker. 

He avoided touching the marks he made.

Now the marks are hidden, melted away by godly flames, and Magnus cannot tell where the scars of one madman begin, and when and where they lead into another’s.

Their bedroom reeks of lavender incense. Not Magnus’ choice, but it calms Toki down enough before he’s forced to face yet another session. Physicians warned them that the burns might leave behind tight, unruly skin, but that daily applications of creams and oils would soothe and promote new growth. It’s been three weeks, Magnus can already see the new, healthy flesh burgeoning from the surrounding yellow and red.

A stream of smoke swims across the room, and Toki sits nervously on top of the bed, crossed-legged and naked back exposed at Magnus. His hair is held up in a tight bun. He faces the wall, but head droops to hide his solemn expression.

These sessions are not easy.

Magnus pressed the pump, capturing a glob of orangey, medicinal lotion that smells as bad as it looks. Another pump, a gift from Abigail, yields a mixture of essential oils. Magnus doesn’t know which ones, only trusts the woman’s word when she tells them it’s working wonders on Nathan, and that it will help Toki’s scars heal faster. He pumps a few globs of the stuff and, with a finger, mixes it all together, nose wrinkling while the oil smothers the pungent odor of lotion.

When he approaches the bed, Toki hunches. Magnus tries not to take offense. “You ready?” he asks, watching as Toki’s shoulder snap upright at the question.

Toki gives a stiff nod. “Mhmm.”

He’s as prepared as either can hope for, which isn’t much. Magnus knows what this does to Toki, what his touch wakens each time he brings a hand to try and heal Toki.

Magnus stands at the end of the bed, staring down at the healing backside. There’s less yellow, less glimmer of natural oils seeping from exposed pores. Magnus almost wonders if he should bother. He knows he wouldn’t mind Toki with scars. He loved him with scars before, and Magnus knows he’d still love him with bright red skin.

Magnus emits a silent sight, then begins applying the lotion and oil mixture with a gentle dab of two fingers.

The reaction is immediate. Toki intakes a sharp breath of air before emitting a terrible whine. Magnus carefully massages the lotion into the skin, the muscles around his left eye twitching as he listens and watches Toki suffer. He returns to his palm to collect another small scoopful of the stuff, and in the meantime, Toki whimpers. His shoulder’s shudder. His back muscles tighten.

Memories unfold.

Memories that Toki cannot yet put to words.

Memories that caused too much pain to be put into words.

Magnus pats another coating. He bites his lips as Toki starts to expel short, uneven coughs, gasps of air that cause Magnus to pause, rethink his actions, only to tell Toki to slow down, remember to breathe through the nose, out the mouth…

“Don’t give yourself a panic attack,” he almost wants to say, but doesn’t because it’s already happened before.

It wasn’t always this bad.

The first week yielded pain, far more than either predicted, but Toki managed through it with only a few tears. He laughed it off a third time, and by day five, was reminding Magnus to spread an even coating, to wait until everything settled before firmly applying the bandages. Then the memories arose, and the nightmares began, and when Magnus tried applying the cream on day seven, had Toki pleading, shaking his head and begging for “it to goes away.” On day ten he started hyperventilating, and they had to take a break. Day fifteen yielded an anxiety attack from the mere sight of the lotion, and Magnus had no choice but to skip that day. On day eighteen, Toki dry heaved so hard, once it was done, Magnus hid himself in the bathroom, avoiding the mirror out of fear as to what he might see when facing his own reflection.

The more it healed, the more detailed the memories became. Though Toki still struggles with putting it words while awake, Magnus can make some sense of what happened in space at night, when Toki moans in his sleep, weeps for him or for one of his brothers.

It’s day twenty-three, and Toki is finally at a point where he mostly just cries, recoils but tells Magnus to not stop, don’t slow down, and “just gets it over wits.”

Magnus stares at Toki’s shaking back. The portions that aren’t burned yield a fine layer of sweat that glimmers under the natural lighting. Toki’s constant trembling makes him glisten, makes the healed flesh appear like a blush.

Magnus scoops the last bit of lotion. “It’s alright.”

He applies, and Toki whines. “Hurts…”

“I know.”

Another touch. Toki shakes his head, and strands of hair comes loose and start to hang.

“…hurts all overs.”

“I’m sorry,” Magnus murmurs, instinctively coming close to try and bring an end to the tears, but withdraws once he feels the heat emitting from Toki. The adrenaline and stacking fear. The burns. He pulls away before Toki notices, and swallows the pain.

“Take a deep breath,” he says, keeping his voice steady as he finishes with the lower back. “If you can, put it into words.”

Toki nods, inhales deeply through his nose. “…I cans…feels it happeninks…”

“I know.” Magnus waits for Toki to inhale once more before massaging the lotion, earning a short, grunted exhale. “Bear with me.”

Toki sniffs. “No mores, please…”

“It’s almost over.”

Toki nods, but Magnus bites his inner cheek at the lie.

He still needs to apply the cream, which will only stir more tears. Then come the bandages, which result in airy, desperate sighs. It’s not until he fits a new shirt on Toki, covers the memories with soft fabric and–if Toki can tolerate to face him–maybe a kiss, does the man finally begin to calm down.

Magnus takes a step back at his work and feels hollow. He watches Toki tremble before him, relieved that the first half of the ordeal is finally over, but the second Magnus picks up the cream, hears Toki’s breathing start to pick up again. When he turns to face him, sees that large, pale blue eye quivering at the sight of him.

He tries to smile, but seeing Toki looking at him like that makes him rethink the kiss. His very lips curl at the idea of any sort of affection. A reward that he feels he both deserves, and doesn’t. And when Toki refuses him, it scares Magnus the most. It confirms everything he’s feared. He can handle the bad dreams, the cries and pleads, but if Toki flees from him, then what?

Magnus can’t see what he’s touching, what memories he’s stirring awake.

If Toki’s cries are aimed solely at Salacia, or

If those memories

Those scars he’s touching

Are his own.


	10. "Listen" (Magtok)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “do you want me to give you advice or do you just want me to listen?” 
> 
> this one ended up self-indulgent, but i love it and i want you all to read it. 
> 
> Warnings: mentions of medication; therapy

After their shared meeting, the psychiatrist requested that Toki leave, and Magnus stay behind for a little while longer. Neither had any reason to believe the news was bad, but when Magnus does leave the small office some five minutes later, looking a little worse for wear, Toki assumes some misgiving has occurred. Bad news? Failure to meet certain goal posts? An increase in dosage?

After a few handshakes, the required talks with the nurse scheduling the next appointment, it’s a quiet ride down the elevator, with Magnus reading the overview of his meeting in absolute silence. Toki clicks his tongue against his teeth, testing the tone and Magnus’ overall mood. The older man never voices a single complaint the ride down, and continues keeping to himself the entire walk to the car.

Toki refuses for the ride home to be silent, and immediately snuffs any chance of Magnus spending the next several minutes driving and moping in without discussing the issue. The keys go into the ignition, and Toki stops him and asks if there is anything he can do to help Magnus. He makes sure not to guess the source of the problem, point a finger or ask any additional questions.

The question hangs above their heads. Toki waits for Magnus’ response, mentally preparing himself for the worse, only to have Magnus drop the keys he had readied for the ignition, and quietly announces that his psychiatrist wants him to consider dropping the stabilizers. 

“She wants you off the stab-ilizers?” Toki says aloud, taking in the news one word at a time. He falls into the passenger seat, eyes agape and staring out towards the parking lot. 

“Yeah.” Magnus squeezes the keys in his hand. “Since my dosage is already so low, she wants me to–” 

“Oh Magnus, this ams such great news!” Toki reaches over to Magnus’ side, pulling him into an awkward, but loving embrace. He rubs his face against a tuft of brown waves, smiling at the tickle.

Toki waited for this day. Magnus worked so hard trying to get better. They’d been to so many sessions. Even on the best of days, Toki knows Magnus didn’t look forward to the trips. He could be in a good mood going in, but the sessions always prove to be stressful, cathartic to the point of it being emotionally overwhelming at times. It isn’t easy.

Magnus wriggles underneath him. “You’re really excited about this?” 

“Yeps!” Toki happily announces. “You gets to get offs another medicines!”

Satisfied, Toki relinquishes his hold on Magnus and drops back to his seat, but not before picking up the stapled, folded sheets detailing the information of their recent visit. He flips through the pages, stopping at the second to the last where he reads the summary and doctor’s suggestion. There it is, clear as day. The good news. Drop the medication to see if Magnus can rely solely on learned techniques and his own hindsight to keep himself in check. It’s real. This is real. It has been such a long time coming, but it’s finally here. 

And isn't this one of the pills Magnus couldn’t mix with alcohol? Toki’s eyes glisten with excitement and possibilities. He thinks of the new and old activities he can reintroduce to Magnus, once he is clear, cleansed of this old prescription and off the blasted pills. They can go out and drink more, and Magnus can get drunk again! Maybe Magnus can take other things, too, and Toki wouldn’t have to worry about it getting in the way of decision making, Magnus making rash decisions, or Magnus going from one extreme to the-

Toki notices how quiet it’s gotten, and when he turns and checks on Magnus, sees that he is still fiddling with the keys. His eyes shift between the collective sheets in Toki’s hands, and the many keys and chains he entangles with his busy hands.

“Ims there something wrongs?” Toki asks, not quite catching on to Magnus’ silence.

A frown. “Nothing,” he answers, still eyeing the keys. “Just…didn’t think you’d get so excited.”

Toki folds the sheets messily on top one another. “You ams getting off the medicaskons. Beens a long times since that happens.”

It’s been over a year since dropping another medication. Toki remembers it clear as day. Like now, Toki had been just as excited, but so had Magnus. They’d both been so relieved to know there was one less thing holding Magnus together. 

Why isn’t Magnus happy right now?

Toki’s hand crushes the sheets. “Magnus?”

Magnus grips the wheel. “Toki, I don’t think I–”

The leather groans under his hold. Toki grits his teeth against the sound. A nasty weight piles in his stomach the second Magnus tears away from the window to meet him.

His stare lets Toki know it’s dread.

“I don’t think I want to get off the dosage,” Magnus announces, voice unwavering, but it’s clear he’s upset. Toki can hear the sharp cadence, the hidden snap that was already gathering on the defense. “I…. _don’t_ want to stop taking them.”

Toki’s silent. He stares at Magnus, watches his expression turn from nervous to dejected at what Toki assumes is his own disappointed expression. Toki can feel it reach into every fiber of his being. The shock. The sudden turn of events. He must look so surprised, he thinks, but can’t bring himself to check in the mirror. He can’t even get himself to look away from Magnus who keeps eyeing him, waiting for a change, a smile, a supportive line. Anything. 

Toki’s head fills with questions. He tries reaching for one, the most obvious “but why nots,” but as he parts his lips, Magnus jerks in seat. 

“Like, I know you’re really excited” he says, voice picking up volume and a distinct uncontrolled shakiness. Magnus smiles when he says it, too, though Toki can detect its inauthenticity the second Magnus tries offering it to him. “I was, too. But then she kept talking about the cleansing period, and the initial swings, and I don’t know, man.”

Magnus hands leave the wheel and start swinging, moving with frantic words and expressions that carve deep into Toki. He sees Magnus shake, go pale as he fights to defend a decision Toki cannot comprehend. The fake smile leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“I know it’s been a while, and I know I see it all through black and white, but I don’t want to say or do anything like I remember,” Magnus says through the silent strain. Toki blinks, witnessing past acts of blind or misdirected rage. He sees Magnus hiding under the covers for days, only leaving to use the restroom or rehydrate. He watches Magnus right now, shaking his head at himself, disbelieving his own strength. “I don’t want to snap at people. I don’t want to feel like I’m choking on my own thoughts.”

There’s anger sitting at the edge of every word. Toki hears it lingering, feels its weight settle around him, but never aimed directly at him.

Magnus coughs false laughter. “Am I overreacting? You think I’m overreacting, don’t you?” He points a finger at himself. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? I’m being stupid, making this more than what it has to be…”

He falls into his seat, hands dragging across his face. Fingers get caught in his hair, curl and writhe and purposely get tangled. Toki stops it with a hand resting on top of Magnus' leg. The simple gesture is enough for Magnus to fix himself up, though avoids looking in Toki’s direction until he’s able to tolerate his own reflection in the rearview. 

“I’m over-fucking-thinking it, again.” He sighs. Toki squeezes Magnus’ thigh, calling for his attention. It takes a few seconds for Magnus to relax, for shoulder ease into place and frown shift into a defeated grin, before he finally secedes. He stares solemnly at Toki. “I need to stop doing that. I really should’ve just asked you from the start, huh?”

The hand shifts from the thigh to Magnus’ hand.

Toki peers close. “Do you wants me to gives you advice or does you just wants me to listen?”

There’s a pin that burrows into his chest when he utters it, because he knows it’s far from what he wants to tell Magnus. But it’s what the man needs to hear, and once it's out there, Toki sees Magnus’ chest heave, and eyes go dark before being covered with his sleeve.

“…I don’t want to be angry all the time,” Magnus confesses. The answer doesn’t immediately surprise Toki, but the fear riddled in Magnus’ eyes, the dread in his voice keeps Toki alert and listening. “I don’t want to feel like I need to look over my shoulder. I don’t want to hurt you. I know you think I won’t, but I can’t shake this feeling I’ll do something awful if I don’t keep myself in check. I know you trust me, but I don’t know if I’m quite there yet, with you. You trust me, but… I’ve done it to you on meds, and now she wants me off of them? What if say something I can’t take back?”

The pin pushes further inward. It hurts because all Toki can hear is how much Magnus thinks about him, how considerate he’s trying to be. It’s so sweet. How nice of him, but he was being so mean to himself in the process. That also hurt, because Toki knows Magnus is better than he thinks. He’s stronger than he gives himself credit for. And it hurts the most because it means the day hasn’t yet arrived, and Toki is going to have to wait a little longer for it to come.

“Okays.”

“What?”

Toki pulls in his lips, fighting past a sigh as he fishes for the right words. They come sooner than predicted, and with them, a gentle warmth. Acceptance. “If you don’t think you ams ready, then you ams not ready. I trusts you. And when you ams, we can celebrates then, okays?”

There’s a smile near the end, and when it forms, the pain lessens. Toki feels it spread across his face, and with it the sense that he still needs to reel Magnus back to him.

He goes for the shoulder. “You okays?”

A despondent frown. “You’re not upset?”

There’s no point in lying to Magnus, not after being so blatantly disappointed after hearing the news. He can handle the truth, Toki thinks, and the more he dwells on it, the more Toki realizes it’s better they both hear.

“I knows I was exciteks about you drinkins and havins fun with me, but we does that anyways,” Toki starts cautiously, and watches as Magnus gives a short, but confirming nod. He tucks his hands between his legs. “And you said you don’t trusts yourskelves, so…Toki will just have to works on that. Helps out my bestest friend believes in himself more.”

He looks up hopefully at Magnus. Toki unbuckles his seatbelt, leaves his seat and takes Magnus into an embrace.

“This ams your therapy,” he says, and feels Magnus’ arms fold around him. “You gets to decides when you ams ready, not me.”

Magnus shuts his eyes. A sharp intake of breath. “Thank you.”

The words hit just right, because once Toki hears it, the pain starts to vanish. They remain that way for some time, with Magnus selfishly pulling Toki as close as their limited space will allow, and Toki listening in on the occasional sniff, the skip of a rapid heartbeat desperately working to convince itself this wasn’t a failure, but something else.

Eventually, the discomfort of his potion forces Toki to part with Magnus sooner than preferred. He catches a relieved sigh once he does, but notices Magnus wiping his face once he does return to his seat. The man hasn’t quite recovered yet.

Toki spots the keys resting between Magnus’ legs. He swallows.

“Wants me to drive?”

Eyes still closed, Magnus stubbornly shakes his head. “You _hate_ driving.”

Toki openly challenges the remark with a slight drop of his voice. “Do you wants me to drive us homes?”

The steering wheel groans, and Magnus’s head sinks against the growing silence. 

Eyes open, and tears fall. “Yeah…”

Smiling, Toki reaches for the keys.


	11. Morning Kisses (Magtok)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning kisses that are exchanged before either person opens their eyes, kissing blindly until their lips meet in a blissful encounter.
> 
> and 
> 
> A kiss pressed to the top of the head.

After a day of chores, and a night filled with an abundance of classical “video nasties” and a shared edible, no one remembered to close the windows, and by the time the sun starts to rise, the bedroom is basking in snappy, wintry air. The sunlight rolls in just before seven, starts peeking through the blinds fifteen minutes in, and finally reaches Toki’s face nearly twenty minutes’ past. The light touches and tickles his nose, wakes Toki just enough to register the cold breaching his exposed shoulders, made more expressive and shocking while under the influence of a dying high, and withdraws into the layers of heavy sheets.

His face tenses against the contrast, then calms into a lazy bliss once the new temperature sinks and fills his senses. Not counting the comforter, there’s three blankets covering him, all a little aged and worn in appearance, but smothering Toki in a cozy, comforting heat while he blindly turns and reaches for the source. He presses his cool nose into Magnus’ back, causing the older man to jolt, utter an unpleasant noise in his sleep before breaking into an exaggerated stretch. Still buried, Toki coils his legs with Magnus’, letting them tangle and lapping up the delicious warmth, the friction that sinks and echoes across his still-foggy brain.

Magnus isn’t quite awake yet, and only folds under Toki’s command. Hungry for more warmth, Toki wraps his arms around the older man’s frame, easily sliding Magnus into his grasp, and not minding the few tired complaints, the lazy stretches that twitch and shake in his arms. He drags his lips over a tensing shoulder, smells spices and salt, and he kisses it until Magnus murmurs a low hum and goes lax. A flicker of a muscle vibrates across his mouth. He feels up a bony shoulder, rides stiff and easing curves until he brushes against thick, wavy hair. Toki pushes through the heat, returns to the frosty atmosphere and purses his warm lips against a cool nape. Eyes still closed, Toki witnesses the kiss through his blissful haze, feels the tremble of Magnus’ wakening body all over him, the radiating heat and energy that fuels and impassions Toki to continue to annoy and assault Magnus’ back in an onslaught of affection. His arms squeeze and he maps out Magnus’ curved form, their tangled legs and his retracting arms, hand reaching and feeling up and down Toki’s sensitive body.

Then, Magnus stirs again. There’s a twist, a soft murmur and his long legs brushing against Toki’s sending a silent plea to let him go for a second. Toki sinks deeper into the sheets as Magnus turns, but is met with the sudden, stark contrast of the winter air against his brow. He winces, then drowns in the sheets, meeting Toki part way as he feels up the younger man’s jawline. Toki presses his warming lips on top of Magnus' forehead. Magnus voices a soft moan which causes Toki to snicker, drops his head as Magnus rises, and places another kiss on top of the man’s bridge.

That one reaches Magnus’ spirit, sends a shiver that scatters over his tired, inebriated form. He shifts, taking some blankets with him, and kisses Toki just under his bottom lip. He earns a soft sigh, an arm sinking and gripping his lower back. Magnus listens, feels Toki drag closer in the dark. He pushes his weight and forces Magnus on his back before placing another kiss on his left side. Magnus kicks up a leg. Cool air swoops between the blankets, but barely disrupts their entanglement. Magnus grips Toki close and kisses his chin. He eats up the sigh Toki whispers, tastes the heated air collecting between them, and then goes up and pulls Toki’s bottom lip with his own, teasing and coaxing him to meet him in a kiss. 

The comforter and blankets start to slide as Toki crawls on top, aligns himself with Magnus and pushes into a kiss. His smile widens as the blanket starts to slip off his back. Magnus’ legs drag up, brushing and rubbing against Toki’s side, calling him closer. The kiss deepens and lips part for a quick reprieve. Heat mixes and Magnus drags his finger’s over Toki’s spine. The comforter sinks and Toki moans a kiss into Magnus mouth, calls for his tongue, his breath and an airy whimper. Magnus feels up an arm, traces over triceps and licks Toki bottom lip over the thought of catching a taste before breakfast. Toki pushes Magnus into the mattress. Magnus nips blindly at Toki’s chin.

The blankets fall, and the light and cold air spill over their meshing bodies, bringing their eyes to open and squint, forcing them out of their passionate stupor. Brisk, refreshing morning air sobers them up, makes Toki utter a sad whine as he rubs his ailing eyes, and Magnus hiss as he reaches for the comforter.

Blankets are tossed, with arms and legs kicking each one high into the air to hide away from the encroaching day.

The light breaks across a new mountain, a constantly shifting combination of bodies and blankets that emits the occasional growl and giggle, stilted breath and hushed moan.


	12. A Hidden Kiss (Nategail)

The meeting room was noticeably warmer to the usual set of klokateers charged with monitoring the exchange, though not a single hooded person knew the cause. There wasn’t a stench, which at least meant a body wasn’t to blame. Miss Remeltindtdrinc didn’t seem to mind the warmth, and made no remark, only threw a curious glance at Master Explosion’s way before sending klokateers to their stations. Nathan noticed the second he walked in, but since Abigail was content, only offered a silent glare at a few hoods. Once everything was settled, and everyone to their places, the meeting room was mostly silent, with the gears steadied and standing to attention, save the most recent of gears assigned to the task making the occasional glance at the black, silken cloth that covered the massive table.

Abigail sat at the end of said table, bottom half tucked under the illustrious cloth. Her hands worked through a few files, flipped through pages on this upcoming meeting before there was a suddenly giving a minor twitch. She jolted a little, catching a few eyes on some klokateers, then returned to her position, pushing the files aside in favor of her laptop. She was careful typing, another hood pointed out. Yet another mentioned the ripple occurring under the table. 

The meeting began just minutes later. A klokateer shut off the lights, while another lowered the monitor. One offered Abigail two glasses of water, which she declined. The klokateers vanished into their corners, practically invisible to the untrained eyes. 

The monitor turned on, revealing Damien Cornickelson’s unsavory glare. “So, the rumors are true.”

Abigail remained still in her seat. A few klokateers dared to settle on her form, while others were caught between the man on the screen, and the black tablecloth producing the occasional, subtle flutter. A tickle. A gentle brush up the exposed legs.

Cornickelson’s eyes narrowed on Abigail. “You’re Dethklok’s new manager.”

“Damien Cornickelson,” Abigail greeted with a mildly flushed smile. “A pleasure.”

“I’m going to cut to the chase,” the man said through a grimace.

Abigail politely nodded, cupping her warm cheek with a hand. “Good, I was hoping this would be brief.”

If Cornickelson noticed her mild discomfort, he didn’t pick up on it. Or didn’t care. Abigail hoped for either, and just as the man tossed her yet another unapproving snicker, another quick flash of a gentle touch cascaded over her upper legs. 

He huffed. “I fucking can’t stand Dethklok, and now that their manager is out of the way for good–”

The table shifted slightly.

Abigail leaned to the side of her chair. “I’m their current manager,” she said, lightly fanning her face with a few twirls of a finger. A curious smile erupted from her, but gave no indication of what was on her mind.

“Their  _ old _ manager,” Cornickelson stated, slamming a hand on his table. “And now that the bastard is gone, there are some changes I’m going to implement. Big changes, missy.”

“I’m all ears,” she said, leaning closer to the table. “But, before we begin, might I raise a few… concerns?”

Cornickelson stared irritably at her.  _ “What?” _

Unaffected, Abigail brought her hands together once more. She closed her legs, hoping it might deter some interruptions as she spoke. “I’m getting the impression that Mr. Offdensen’s departure means you’ll want to conduct changes that would better suit you,” she stated through a solid candor. “Am I wrong to presume such?”

“Smarter than you look.” Cornickelson snickered at his own remark, then grabbed a drink off camera and took a hefty gulp of it in front of Abigail. He slammed the glass down, causing the screen to flicker. “But yeah. Guy’s a beast with contracts. Been a thorn in my nail.”

“I see,” Abigail said, the final word stretching into a sigh. Her eyelids fluttered through the warmth. A few fingers coax her, gently wish her good luck with a pat against her knees. “I also take it that you’re under the impression you can implement  _ these _ ,” she picked up a file and waved it in front of the screen, “petty, unoriginal and unremarkable acts of terror upon Dethklok?”

With a finger and thumb, Cornickelson reached for his straw, and stirred his nearly empty glass. He grinned amusingly at Abigail. “Big words from a small lady.”

“Finally, and forgive me for being so brash, Mr. Cornickelson,” Abigail interjected with an unusually airy, but heated confidence. “You seem to be under the impression that, just because of a few rumors spread by the media, that I’m unsuited to work for Dethklok.”

“That–”

“I didn’t finish,” Abigail calmly, but sternly remarked over Cornickelson. The table cloth underneath her swayed, and a few klokateers noticed the end of her mouth fight to keep form. “ _ Anyway _ , I’m under the impression that, upon hearing my name, you immediately pulled some online articles regarding my relationship with Mr. Explosion, and did not look at my years spent in university studying this line of work, my curriculum vitae submitted while your father still lead the company, and the eight additional bands I helped signed and vastly improve under the several years spent working for this company.”

“Well, I–”

“I’m also guessing you’re unaware of the charges I dropped against your company due to the faulty security placed during your father’s funeral. The funeral which resulted in my kidnapping and me getting stabbed and tortured, locked in a basement, and earning one hell of a parking fine once I got out. Or the fact that, upon my returning to the company, I had Dethklok complete the final song to their most recent album, the album that earned you that pretty lil’ diamond earring you have there?”

The straw snapped in half. Cornickelson raises a finger at Abigail. “You little bi–”

“I will say, though, that you must be aware of the letter of recommendation being sent to you by Mr. Offdensen right now.”

He scowled. “What are you–”

There came the sound of a door knocking. Cornickelson paused, eyes turning to the course of the sound, then back to Abigail. She remained silent, hands cupped tight, though it was apparent to some hidden klokateers that she had gravitated to the very edge of her seat. The dark cloth rippled on the side, just out of Cornickelson’s view. The knocking arrived again, and the man said nothing more, but left the screen. There was a talk off camera. Abigail maintained her position, though she did utter a few, unrestrained giggles, and made the occasional, warning glance at the table beneath her. A few additional complaints took place off camera, right as Abigail emitted a mild sigh before shifting the position of her legs, and bringing herself up right as Cornickelson returned. 

He stumbled into view, eyes glued to the sheet held in his hands. “This is…a letter?”

“A letter of recommendation,” Abigail replied in a satisfied tone. “Please get acquainted with how a proper one should appear. I’m sure the one Mr. Offdensen just supplied you with will make a fine example.”

_Oh._ Another tickle! She twitched in her seat. Thankfully, the lack of lighting kept it hidden from Cornickelson who, after taking in her words, dropped his hands to his sides. He frowned, and despite the darkness surrounding the blaring screen, Abigail was sure she could make out the false teeth in a row of stained yellow.

“What’s the point of this?”

His voice lacked confidence.

Sensing the weakness, Abigail charged. “To let you know I’m not some bimbo hired by Dethklok,” she replied plainly, earning a nasty scowl from Cornickelson. “More importantly, to let you know I have connections,  _ Damien _ .” A twitch. This time, from Cornickelson. Abigail smirked. An unholy pleasure arose from her chest as she watched his scowl stretch on her behalf. “I’ve been trained by the best. If you think Mr. Offdensen was a bitch, you don’t know me. I spent months in hell. I  _ survived  _ hell.”

Cornickelson slowly returned to his seat, eyes never leaving Abigail’s fierce stare.

“Damien, you do not want to fight someone who survived hell,” she warned, face flushed and emitting an energy she was sure Cornickelson could detect.

_ How he took it… _

She watched Cornickelson rest his sweaty brow on top of his hands. “What do you want?”

She stopped herself from chuckling. “I had my assistant fax you the changes I’d like to implement come next review. Please look it over and make any reasonable suggestions. I think you will be pleased to know I can be rather strict on the boys.” A small grin. “Doesn’t mean we don’t have fun though.”

Without looking up, he answered. “Alright.”

Abigail noticed his hand rubbing the side of his jaw. With a light huff, she waved pleasantly at him. “I look forward to hearing from you. See you soon.”

The monitor flickers off, and as it recedes back into the ceiling, the lights in the room return, blaring their eerily glow.

Relieved, Abigail reclined into her seat, giving her brow a gentle fan. With the light on, it was apparent to all that her face carried a bright, red hue. A few klokateers appeared out from their concerns, ready to congratulate her on a job well done. Another, one carrying the water, hurried over.

Suddenly, something raced up her leg. “Ah!” She jolted at the tickle, breaking into a panicked giggled as large hands reached from under the tablecloth and began pulling her down. Still laughing, Abigail swatted at the hands. “Nathan, stop it!”

Fingers gripped around her skirt, yanked her from seat, and pulled her under the table. Not willing to risk slipping, Abigail allowed herself to be dragged under, hands batting and hitting Nathan all the way down, until she was finally embraced by the surrounding darkness.

She dropped to her knees, back hunched as she fit the form of the table’s underbelly. Arms wrapped around her waist, and pulled her straight into Nathan’s chest. She squirmed under the collected heat, and against the massive arms the tickled her sides, leaving her completely defenseless for the kiss roughly placed on her cheek. She was better prepared for the second, and by the time Nathan pulled away for it, Abigail guided him to her, bringing them together in a better fitting, gentler kiss on the lips. Nathan gave her a quick, but affectionate squeeze, shaking her in place as it built up, filling her chest with excitement before breaking and dropping her on top of him. 

She felt Nathan smile against her. He parted, face lifted in a mean smirk. “You did good.”

Abigail rested against him. “Think so?”

“Yeah.”

Abigail blushed. “I was worried. It was so warm in this room, and I was sure the table was going to fall over.”

“Nah, I fixed it real quick,” Nathan said, then raised a screwdriver to her view. “Managed to get a few screws in before you started nailing him down.”

“That’s good.”

The screwdriver dropped, metal side bouncing up before settling and rolling out from underneath the table. Nathan stared harshly in the dark, bright eyes glowing menacingly at Abigail still fanning herself.

“Sorry about ticking your legs,” he murmured. “Was really crowded. Couldn’t see too well.”

“It’s not a problem,” Abigail replied. The side of her face blushed warm against Nathan’s chest. “How about you promise me you won’t wrestle Murderface in the meeting rooms, and we’ll call it even.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

Abigail lifted herself off from Nathan. “C’mon, let’s get out of here,” she said, then fixed a few, long strands of hair that were covering parts of his face. “Don’t want people getting any ideas.”


	13. "You're Not Broken" (Nathan and Pickles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're not Broken" requested earlier this month by metalrat. Ended up not shipping, but still satisfied with the results. 
> 
> Warning: drug use

It’s late in the evening, and though there’s hardly a cloud in the sky, Mordhaus’ massive frame casts an imposing shadow that stretches across the empty fields. Winds blow the bitter, earthy aftertaste of strong weed. Nathan, resting on his balcony, catches a whiff and is soon drawn to the stream, a brook less than half a mile’s walk from the castle. He leaves the fortress as the sun continues to ease into the silent woods, turning the hazy orange sky into a dark, muddled purple.

The temperature drops quickly, though Nathan remains unaffected until he hears water wafting, and tastes the fresh crisp air mixing with the deepening stench of cannabis. When he catches wind of a certain voice, a smile emerges. He picks up pace, only coming to a slow once he notices the anxiety ridden in the voice, and halts when he spots Pickles on his phone, pacing from rock to the next.

“Well, yeah. Ya’ got a point, but–”

Nathan gets a glimpse of Pickles’ complexion. There’s a noticeable lack of color in his face, and despite the cold, the man looks like he’s been running laps. Nathan hurriedly counts the lines across Pickles’ brow, the speed and uneven step in his already quickened gait, and assumes it’s family. Weed gives Pickles the slight jitters, but the dark circles under the eyes can only be a product of a crazed narcissist looking to gain something from him.

Right then, Pickles’ stops. Whoever he’s talking to is unloading some serious guilt onto him. There’s a pile of stones being thrown on him, weighing Pickles down and forcing him to sink further into the earth, back bending and shoulder sinking as Pickles takes it all without saying a damn word. The man’s receiving an invisible pummel, a repeated kick to the gut. Nathan sees the defeated expression and knows it’s Seth on the line.

Pickles sighs into the phone. “Right. Alright, then. _Ok_. I’ll do it.”

Pickles drops the call and shoves the dethphone as deep as he can into his pants without the sharp ends tearing into the fabric. He brings his hands behind his head and groans aloud, covering the gentle rolls of water. A few swears lets Nathan know it’s money related, as usual. Pickles going silent and reaching for the pipe he placed on a nearby stone warns Nathan that Pickles is definitely going to pay out and give Seth what he wants. Pickles shaking, blinking wide-eyed as he tries working his lighter tears Nathan from the shadows, and into the small clearing.

Nathan appears under the rising moon, right as Pickles takes a huff. “Hey, Pickles.”

A cough. Pickles pats his chest and brings his pipe down. “Shit, Nathan. Ya’ nearly gave me a heart attack.” 

“Sorry.”

Pickles shakes his head, raises his pipe to Nathan as he wipes a few tears from the corner of his eye. “Wanna have a go?”

Spurts of smoke spread over Nathan. The harsh taste of the air lets him know it’s some good stuff. He glances around him, at the stream, the stars slowly coming into view, and the occasional glow of unknown wildlife hidden in the woods. It’s honestly not a bad place to get high, but after a shit call, Nathan isn’t sure it’s the right setting to do alone.

He takes the pipe, earning a nod from Pickles, who coughs and hacks up something wet. Nathan glances at the pointed ends of the phone sticking out from Pickles’ pocket. “You were on the phone with your brother?”

Pickles immediately frowns. “Ya’ heard that?”

“Yeah.”

Pickles carefully settles on a large rock near the water. His elbows fall on top of his legs. “What did ya’ hear?”

Nathan lights himself a smoke and inhales. “’Nuff to know you’re going to give him money,” he mutters into the darkening sky.

Pickles watches a jet of smoke spew and vanish into the night. His eyes twitch a nervous gleam, and he extends his arm outwards, ready to take the pipe. Nathan takes a step and hands it to Pickles, saying nothing as he searches around the damp soil for solid bearing, or a dry enough seat. The closest is a collection of rocks set a few feet away, but it makes sharing the pipe a bitch. Nathan decides to stand by, figuring he can handle whatever percentage of THC Pickles is dishing his way.

“Jus’ so ya’ know,” Pickles says after blowing a ringlet of smoke, “I ain’t gonna give him shit.”

“Uh-huh,” Nathan mutters as he watches the stars begin to glisten with various shades of intense white.

“He thinks he can jus’ call me and hit me up fer cash.”

Pickles takes another hit, breathing deep and not turning off the flame until there’s smoke filling the scene. Nathan’s standing, but tastes it. Bitterness wafts in the air, consuming his senses. The serene lap of water drowns in a nasty heat that Pickles spits out in another cough. Nathan feels his spine begin to tingle as Pickles starts to shake.

He rolls fingers through his thick dreads. “Thinks he can pull some ol’ cards on me. Family. Whatever, dood.” Pickles slumps forward, arm raised up to Nathan and offering him the still burning bowl. “He’s got nothin’ on me. Don’t give a crap ‘bout whatever debts he owes. People he pissed off.”

Nathan takes the pipe. His eyes shift between Pickles’ sinking form, and the developing blur that surrounds him, making him appear more a pale specter than man. Nathan brings the pipe to his lips. “Surprised he had your number.”

Pickles shifts in his seat. Nathan hopes it’s the cold, or the poor substitute of a seat Pickles decided to rest upon. But there’s that deepening shadow around the eyes that irks Nathan, and from within Pickles’ shaky irises, Nathan’s positive he can detect that subtle hint of self-loathing and disgust.

“You ask him how he got it, right?” Nathan says midway through his hit. It’s a loaded question, and Nathan knows it. The damn remark implies Seth was smart enough to work the system and get his grubby hands on it, which, if past interactions with the jackass proved anything, wasn’t the case. Nathan flares his nostrils, letting the remainder of the smoke spill out.

“Well...”

“Yeah?”

Pickles tilt’s his head away from Nathan, right as he offers the pipe back to him.

“Nah.” Pickles slumps further. His lips push out into a defeated pout. “I, uhhh, ended up givin’ it to him durin’ the trip to Australia.”

Unmoving, Nathan asks, “Why?”

Pickles rests his arms on top of one another. He shrugs into the cold, and it goes silent for a while. For a few seconds, Nathan gets lost in the darkening scenery, the purple skies and whimper of frightened animals. Nathan sways silent, surrendering to the occasional frosty, breeze with a mild shudder.

Then, he hears Pickles sniff. “Well, you know…” he says, and although Nathan continues to stare upwards, can see Pickles wrapping himself up in a faux smile and using it as a blanket to convince himself it’s as good an excuse as any. “In case…”

“In case he needed money,” Nathan finishes for Pickles.

The silence returns, and again, there’s the gentle flow of water. The winds tear through the thick forests, sending out a low wail that, once it hits, causes both men the shiver in the dark. Nathan exhales the last bitter taste from his lips, then bends and drops the cold pipe besides Pickles. A minute passes, and when Nathan catches an angered growl next to him, drops his eyes and sees Pickles staring at the blackening roll of the brook, at his miserable reflection. 

_“Fuck,”_ Pickles cries, shaking his head. He hits the stone underneath him. “What is wrong with _me_ , dood?”

Nathan raises a brow as Pickles’ palms shift into fists, and repeatedly smash against the stone. When the pain’s too much to bear, he gets up, paces around some more, then swings his fists outwards with another sharp cry.

“They treat me like I’m dirt, but I keep handin’ them my number, answerin’ their calls and offerin’ them financial support?” Pickles kicks up dirt and rocks, sending bits flying and hitting the cold water with piercing cold splashes. Nathan steps back. Pickles kicks up more wet soil and stomps a foot into the mushy hole he’s made. “After everything they did to me! I can’t believe i'm still doin’ this crap!”

The scene goes on for a minute longer, with Pickles enacting a series of random kicks and flails, destroying leeks and bulrushes, and disrupting the life around the brook with flying pebbles, clumps of grass and screams. Nathan thinks to stop Pickles, in case a wandering gear decides to call Offdensen, and he thinks about joining Pickles and handing him larger stones to throw at some unlucky freshwater eels. He plays with the lighter and waits for Pickles’ personal flame to go wild and die out on its own, and for Pickles to return to him and the icy stone seat.

The weed really starts to sink in, and whatever will there was to fight is gone, replaced with heavy tranquility that leaves Pickles silent again.

The sky turns a dark blue, almost black and matching the water below. Stars twinkle and burst like lightning, keeping Nathan occupied long enough for Pickles to drown in the high, to stop stuttering and hitting the rock underneath, and eventually stand and join Nathan in the stargazing. 

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s me, y’know?” Pickles mutters solemnly. “Maybe it’s me that’s got it wrong?” 

The words cut through the silence. Nathan feels the tip of the blade lick his chest, threatening him with a fraction of the discomfort he knows Pickles is enduring.

Pickles covers the top half of his face. His open mouth exhales a cloud of hot air. “Times like these, I wonder. Like, maybe they’re all the normal ones, and I’m the one that’s fucked up. I’m the broken one.”

The words make Nathan visibly cringe. He shakes his head, offended. “Pickles,” he says, turning slightly and covering the man’s lanky shoulder with his hand. “You’re not broken.”

Pickles eyes glisten as he glances upward, offering Nathan only a slight nod.

In any other situation, Nathan would have figured that now is the time to be honest and remind Pickles of his views regarding the family. Pickles aside, everyone hosting that cursed surname was a grade-A narcissist. Everyone knows it, and yet it proves a sore subject to broach with Pickles.

The thought arises. It’s there and Nathan can feel the satisfying insults lining his lungs, ready to be expelled. He thinks to say it, but sees Pickles’ bared teeth, his exasperated frown, and he hears those words cut into him.

_Broken._

An old, familiar sting returns, clearing through the drug’s influence, and settles on Nathan. He sees Pickles standing there, uncomfortable, hating himself, and the weed carries old sounds of laughter, fingers pointing and whispers aimed at Nathan.

“Pickles, you’re _not_ broken,” he repeats, softer and forlorn.

Pickles glanced up at him again. This time, the stare lingers, catching traces of a different, though not completely dissimilar ache.

Nathan brings his arms up. “It’s easy to feel broken…” he pauses, eyes shutting as old memories arise. Ancient dreams that fill with the smoky haze of his high, but the pain is still there. The judgemental stares from adults that weren’t his parents. The classmates that refused to accept his silence. The doctors that snubbed any small improvement with his speech development, and instead focused on his shortcomings. “It’s… so easy to feel broken when everyone around you just… _focuses_ on your faults. When they-” 

Nathan halts, watching the words slip from his grasp, float into the sky and be replaced with overwhelming anger and frustration. Something clogs his throat. Heat and pressure build as Nathan continues to stare up at the fading words, at those who demanded him to speak up, to say something, and then drops his stare to Pickles patiently nodding his head at him, getting it without ever finishing the sentence.

A lanky hand smacks the back of his shoulder. When Nathan settles, and can bring his arms down, Pickles is there, smiling crookedly through a half-chewed lip.

“Ya’ mind lettin’ me know my fault?” Pickles asks once Nathan finds himself back under the soothing flow of running water and crickets chirping. The weed recollects as he listens in on Pickles joking with him, telling him it must be his good looks or svelte figure. Nathan realizes things have shifted, and now it's Pickles trying to calm him down. Pickles putting his needs aside and trying to figure out what blew up in his mind, what sent his mind reeling.

“Your fault if you're good,” Nathan says quickly, and booms it over Pickles’ japes and snickers. “You’re too damn good for your family. You’re…the only good thing about your family, and they know it. S’not really a fault, but it makes you different. Makes you a–”

Pickles pulls Nathan close into a shaky, nervous half-hug. The gesture stops Nathan from finishing, and halts the blade from cutting any deeper.

He parts, eyes dropping for a moment, but rising once the cool air settles between them. “Thanks,” Pickles says, voice shaken, but appreciative.

Nathan gives a short nod. “I mean it.” 

“I know,” Pickles says, swaying under the guidance of a frosty breeze. He waits while Nathan looks up one final time, absorbing the abundant array of the night sky, and using the thousands of stars to smother the faint memories filled with excuses and fragmentation.

It goes silent again, and this time Nathan shuts his eyes. He listens to the sounds of wildlife and Pickles picking up his pipe to take a more controlled hit.

The two get lost and float in the gentility of nature and darkness. 

“Nathan?” Pickles asks after a while. 

“Yeah?”

Warmth returns. A hand rubs his lower back. “You okay, dood?”

“Just thinking… ‘bout stuff.” Nathan opens his eyes and faces Pickles, expression hardly indicating beyond the usual gruffness, though Nathan is sure Pickles is squinting because, like him, he can see the distant glimmer of a knife being pulled into the darkness, in the shadows of his irises. Nathan wrinkles his nose. “Y’know?”

Pickles grins, satisfied with what he sees “Yeah.” 

They stare a bit longer at the rolling water, and Nathan makes a few comments about some strange insect life Toki snuck into Mordhaus a few days prior. Pickles mentions seeing a weird beetle in the kitchen.

His dethphone rings.

“Ah, shit.”

Nathan waits until Pickles has it out before offering his hand to Pickles. “Lemme see that,” he half-demands. Curious, Pickles tilts the phone in his direction. Nathan snatches it and, without warning, positions himself and tosses the cellphone outwards, straight into the water.

The phone hits the surface with a loud _plop_ , then sinks.

Pickles’ jaw sinks. He grabs at his dreads. “Dood!”

Nathan calms him down with a stare. It takes a second for Pickles to settle, but he does, and waits for Nathan to explain himself.

“Let’s agree to trash our phones every few months,” he states aloud, over Pickles’ hitched breathing and panicked expression. “For safety purposes.”

No talks about why in particular, or the fact that Seth is the living embodiment of everything wrong with society, but like the message before, it hits and translates perfectly with Pickles. He stares out to the water, at the rippling rings spreading and vanishing into the gentle current. His frown disappears, sinking to a silent, but approving daze.

“Sure thing, dood,” Pickles says, heading lowering as he stifles a chuckle, but even while under the influence, Nathan can see, read the red filling Pickles’ eyes as something more than just the effect of a good high.


	14. Sunlight (Mag/Charles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sunlight"
> 
> Takes place immediately following DSR. 
> 
> Warning: Story contains disturbing imagery; physical disability; reference to suicide.

Charles was grateful he designed Mordhaus with hardly any stairs, save for the grandiose ones designated for the more lavish, _festive_ rooms, and instead opted for a more practical means of getting around the gargantuan fortress as quickly and effectively as possible. Naturally, the boys had little positives to discuss, and Nathan muttered a few lines about Vikings lacking elevators and smoothened flooring, but Charles saw little point in arguing over minor aesthetics. With so many servants, and the promise of Dethklok’s new army already exponentially growing, having alternative access to rooms, hidden pathways and chambers made locating, servicing, and, quite often _saving_ the boys far more manageable and accessible. 

“I, ah, took the liberty of cleaning a spare room in the dungeon.”

Charles wheeled Magnus up a gentle incline. Despite the model of the wheelchair, Charles required more than his usual effort to keep a steady distance between himself and the handles and the back of the seat. The scientist in the upper levels had supplied a remote control to the left armrest that Magnus refused to use on a basis of (his absolutely stubborn) principle, and with his right wrist handcuffed to the armrest, Charles was placed with the burden of carting the man through the dark, secret passages.

Magnus huffed underneath him. “Wonderful,” he said with a dry flick of his tongue. “I look forward to the sounds of screams filling my otherwise uneventful nights.”

Charles halted to let a hand rest on top of the man’s slumped shoulders. “The walls are thick, and will repress most sounds,” he exclaimed, not picking up on Magnus' eye roll until he got close and witnessed the less than savory reaction to his presence. “You, ah… you don’t care about that, do you?”

Magnus emitted another dry chuckle. “It doesn’t really matter where you place me, Charles,” he said, then wheezed out an airy cough. Charles leaned close, offering a handkerchief as Magnus covered his mouth with his one, free hand. He brushed off the offering, shaking his miserable head at Charles. “A hospital room. A cell. A bedroom in a dungeon. I’m still your damn prisoner.”

Magnus had been like this since he woke up from the hospital three weeks prior. Klokateers were sent to locate him upon Toki’s request, but it was only Charles that knew of the man’s actual condition. He was found alive, though not without retaining some severe damage. Charles told the boys he was in a coma, and would likely never waken. A lie Charles knew he would, at _some point_ , retract, but for now found it easier to keep silent on Magnus’ progress. He doubted there would be an explanation efficient enough to pardon the amount of time and care placed on Magnus, though Charles certainly considered it the right series of actions. The impalement left by the assassin had damaged Magnus’ central nervous system, and the self-inflicted knife wound rendered the very act of breathing a labor after a short conversation. Though it was possible to rewire the spine and provide Magnus the ability to walk, Charles declined approval for the experimental surgery. Partly out of fear. Partly as a means of enacting justice on a man who didn’t deserve to walk for the time being. Partly out of something else.

This, and the recent heart surgery more than likely meant Charles didn’t need the handcuffs to secure Magnus into his seat, but when a klokateer handed him the restraints, Charles was hit with a blast of nostalgia, and could only think (and say), “why not?”

Magnus was declared healthy for release a few days ago, and since then, Charles busied himself with the arrangements. At some point, he would depart Dethklok for good, but until then, he’d work on this secret side project, fixing Magnus piece by piece, diagnosing the unknown source of his rage and misery, and would, _eventually,_ have the man own up to his terrible acts. There was Toki to consider, after all. There was Abigail, too. Nathan. There was the whole _damn_ stunt he pulled at the funeral.

But, for now…

“Prisoner, hmm?” Charles turned a wide, round corner, revealing yet another hallway leading to an elevator. He added nothing more, letting the stirs and weakened low chuckles inform him of what Magnus still thought of him. 

“I sincerely doubt you’ll let me go once I’m all patched up,” Magnus remarked, then rested his heavy head on top of his free hand. 

Charles deflected the statement with a question. “Where would you go?”

“Good point.” Magnus finished with a laugh, far softer this time. Though Magnus was careful not to show it, the sentence left him winded, and Charles’ remark pushed his strength to the limit. Charles wheeled him inside the elevator, not saying a word as Magnus’ stare dropped to his legs. “You have me where you want me.”

Charles didn’t bother to come up with a witty remark, a joke or question. Any further attempt to detract or defer would have Magnus pushing back harder until he was using his one good appendage to wring the truth out of him.

So he remained quiet. He said nothing as he locked the wheelchair into place and hit the topmost button, and persisted in keeping the same front once the elevator made its ascent. Both men were silent the entire ride, with Magnus still facing the consequences of his own actions, and Charles years of “whys and what ifs” he hadn’t bothered asking himself since learning of Magnus’ departure from the band. It had been so hard then, and now it was becoming close to unbearable; all the questions he wanted to ask Magnus.

Why did you do it? 

Why did you toss your future away? 

Why didn’t you answer my calls?

What if I had stopped it?

What if I had given you the attention you craved?

...

“What do you think?”

They stood on top of the head of Mordhaus. An icy, but refreshing morning gust of wind hit them, stirring Magnus up to clench his ailing chest, and Charles to lower and offer the man his scarf. He was sure Magnus would refuse it, like he had every small, kind offering affronted to him, but this time Magnus greedily took the cloth and brought it up to his bandaged front.

Charles took it as a sign of progress.

He asked again. “What do you think, Magnus?” 

Magnus was silent. Not out of defiance, but because the sight of the sun compounded him so. He’d spent his entire recovery induced, forced to face the unending darkness and whatever machinations his mind would allow while under the influence of power opioids. His time spent awake wasn’t much better. Charles purposely kept Magnus in a room separate from the rest, secluded and lacking a window. Any light Magnus was exposed to was falsified, a product of man’s great undertakings. And, as of earlier this morning, Magnus would be spending an… _undisclosed_ amount of time healing in his new room. Much like his hospital room, this one would be small, isolated and kept secret to most of the staff.

This room would also lack the extra lighting the hospital supplied, and somehow Charles knew that Magnus was aware of this.

Charles stared out at the blue fields below them, eyes riding a sea of swaying grass against the morning breeze, and those in the distance that were gathering sunlight and shifting into a more natural, dark green hue. In the distance, the top of massive trees shook against the harsher winds, gales that made the entire forests groan in misery at the start of a new day.

The sun, however, rose proudly against the icy winds and foggy atmosphere, tearing through the sheet and hitting Magnus with the first real warmth that he’d experienced in a long time. A heat he couldn’t refute, and had no choice but to accept. A light he couldn't escape from, and cherished for it having existed. Warmth Charles hoped he might be able to offer, one day. 

If either would allow.

Charles lowered to Magnus’ level. _“Well?”_

Magnus blinked. Charles thought he heard something similar to that of a smothered choke. “It’s nice, I suppose.”

Finally, an end to the attitude.

“If you behave, I promise you can watch the sun rise more often,” Charles said, unaffected at how such a simple reward could sound so ominous coming from him. He saw Magnus shirk underneath him, and knew the message had come off as intended. Still, despite the cruelty behind his words, the desire to get close was still there, and his hands quickly left the wheelchair’s handles to rest on top of Magnus’s shoulder. “We can watch together… or on your own. Whatever you prefer.” 

This time Magnus made no attempt to cover the frustration in his forced, pained laugh. “And who will have the _honor_ of wheeling this waste of space up to the topmost floor?”

The sarcasm, though unwelcomed, returned familiar feelings of a simpler past.

Charles pressed his face into the center of Magnus’ crown, breathing in the smell of freshly washed hair he had worked so thoroughly to clean. “…good point.”


	15. Breaking the Rules (Magtok)

To say Toki makes Magnus feel young is an understatement.

It starts small, with Toki telling Magnus they don’t have to wait in lines like the rest of the “regulars jackoffs.” He removes his hat from his head, and a swarm of klokateers gather as fans begin to pick up on the celebrity couple. Executioner hoods surround them, and before Magnus has time to go on the defense, is politely escorted by the ride staff to the nearest elevator, bringing them up to the second floor and loading station for the coaster.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” one enthused and underpaid teenager says, then orders that the next compartment be reserved just for the two. Some visitors complain, but are hastily cut-off by others once word gets around that Toki Wartooth is on a date with Magnus Hammersmith. Pictures flash and Magnus averts his gaze while klokateers race forward to snatch and snap phones in half. 

“Let me take your things,  _ sir, _ ” A klokateer offers, taking Magnus’ sunglasses, water bottle and beanie and cradling all in his arms as though each article were some delicate relic. The servant withdraws as Magnus is pulled into the ride by Toki, but Magnus never sees it stowed into a cubby, and assumes when he stumbles off the horrific ride that the servant held his things the entire duration, and is promptly handed back to him with the same respect afforded to Toki.

This pattern continues for the duration of the day. Not once is Magnus referred to as anything less than “sir,” and by the end of the day, almost feels like he’s somebody important. When he jokes about it in the limo, Toki merely pokes fun of him for thinking he’s anything but. The way Toki says it leaves Magnus speechless for most of the ride. 

It’s more than just power.

The next time it’s at a stadium. Magnus mentions the heydays of wrestling, the “Hell in the Cell” matches he and the boys used to bet on when they were younger, when the need for a spectacle outweighed the urge to go out and face the awful weather, and spare change and want for cheap booze was plenty. Toki takes this as permission to reenact all those silly moments with a date to a sold-out match. Toki surprises Magnus by bringing him to a stadium, and has him pick from a row of overly excited actors. Again, Magnus is at a loss for words. People shake his hand, tell him how honored they are to meet him, that Toki’s one lucky guy, and Magnus can only manage a stoff smile at the unending praise. Used to such worship, Toki nudges Magnus for names and stunts while the manager tells him not to worry about any potential damage. 

“They can handle whatever you boys can dish out!” the man exclaims, then points a finger at some women and demands for them to offer “these  _ fine _ gentlemen” a drink.

Magnus is handed a bag of thumb tacks. A female wrestler tells him to give the word during the match, and she’ll offer him a fold-in chair for tossing. She lets him know he can go right up to the stage and make the swing himself, or ask another to do it for him. Another wrestler reminds the klokateers to give them a warning when Toki decides to enter the stage, and Magnus wonders how many times Toki’s made a scene like this during a predetermined match, and how often it’s affected future games.

His worry is cast aside when they’re placed in the front row, with cushioned seats that, were it not for the wall of klokateers surrounding them, would have painfully stood out amongst the crowd. Whatever anxiety and concerns he had regarding the performers vanishes once thousands of fans fixate on them, cheer and shout their popularized celebrity name with a vigor that is absent once the wrestlers hit the stage. 

“Throw them tacks!” Toki hisses into Magnus’ ear once their desired wrestler takes the first hit.

Magnus stares at his bag and questions the morality of his actions. Toki appears in his side glance, snickering, eyes narrowing into vicious little slits that make Magnus’ heartbeat go on the rise, the adrenaline already coursing through his veins race and fill his brain with the stupid desire to hear Toki cheer and laugh at the sight of blood being drawn.

He tosses the tacks. Blood is drawn. Toki grabs Magnus and shouts. Someone calls him “sir” and asks him if the stunts are good enough before offering a toolbox to him and Toki. Magnus throws chairs, cans of beer, dollar bills at whatever pretty face or sculpted rear draws his drunken attention, and with only minor prompting from Toki, finds himself on stage. Toki holds a mic up and shit-talks a wrestler who takes it like a champ, says nothing when the mic is handed to Magnus and he’s given his chance to say whatever the hell he feels before loudly demanding the other to kick his ass. Lacking a filter, and with a crowd of thousands chewing up their every word, Magnus says more than his fair share.

Nobody dares boo at them when they kiss.

It’s control over another person, but far more intense.

“Can I help you, officer?” Magnus asks in an overly calm demeanor. He lowers his shades, exposing the red surrounding his good iris, the veins alive and coursing in the second.

It’s been several months, and whatever restraint Magnus carried with him disappears along with the heated wind. Beside him Toki reclines comfortably in the passenger seat, unaffected by the presence of policemen or sirens. 

The officer rests his hand on the roof of the car to diagnose the source of Magnus’ dry eyes, though the bitter, earthy stench that emits from the open window gives away plenty. “Do you have any idea how fast you two were going?”

Magnus snorts at the question. “I don’t know? You’re the one with the speedometer.”

“Got a real sense of humor, do we?”

Toki pops up. “Yeps!” He happily proclaims, unbuckling his belt and going up to a crawl, hands resting on top of Magnus as he peers out the window. “He ams really funnies when he wants to be. Loves that’s abouts him!”

The officer drops the padlet used to write his tickets. “Holy shit, Mr. Wartooth!” He steps back, eyes Magnus and breaks into a mild sweat. “Oh,  _ Mr. Hammersmith _ . My apologies, I didn’t recognize you there.”

“Mhmm.” Magnus reaches for the burning, pink and yellow pipe.

Toki points at the officer’s side. “Cans I sees your tasers?”

_ “What?” _

“You heard the man,” Magnus says, turning as the weight on his legs shift. Toki backs into his seat, snatches the pipe up, but not before nuzzling Magnus’ face against his own. Confident, Magnus slaps his hand against the outside of the driver’s door. “Let him play with your taser, yeah? Have another good laugh?”

“Of course, Mr. Hammersmith.”

The taser gun and holster are handed to him. The officer tells Magnus how to use it, but the words are meaningless and, lacking any sense of safety, he hands it to Toki.

“Here you go, buddy,” he says, breaking into an uncontrolled fit of chuckles once Toki snatches it, then blows smoke out the window, straight into the officer’s face.

Toki stares at the weapon with childlike wonder. “I wants to try it on someones,” he tells Magnus, eyes shifting from innocent to malicious.

It’s a stare that stirs that hot, near uncontrolled fixation.

“Do you?” Magnus asks, voice going low as Toki fixes a grin, one carrying the promise of future law-breaking and potential bloodshed.

“Yeps.”

Magnus points a finger at the nervous looking policeman standing right outside the driver’s side. Toki stares, eyes going up and down the man’s rotund form, and shakes his head. 

It’s something greater than youth, more intense than power and control, and when Toki pulls the taser from the holster, pale blue eyes going dark with ideas, Magnus bites his lip.

Toki licks his. “Let’s go dancing.”

Toki makes him feel immortal.


	16. Tongue-tied (Pickleface)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains alcohol, drugs, swearing and a trans!Pickles

It’s nearing one in the morning, and Pickles is flipping through the channels, heel tapping through the line of infomercials with the steady hum and beat that echoes with the drum of Murderface’s fingers against his stomach. Coffee, booze, weed and just about every brand of chip and candied popcorn known to man litters the surrounding couch. The blanket once shared between them now clutters the floor, pooled mainly around Murderface’s feet.

Murderface sees a flash of red on the screen and spits up a bit of his drink. He points a finger. “Hey, shtop there!”

Pickles lifts his heel. “Here?”

“Nah, nah! Go back a few channels!” Murderface says, then grabs at the near-empty bowl of caramel corn. “I shink I shaw your fashe…”

“Oh,  _ great _ ,” Pickles mutters sarcastically, but a twinkle in his eyes tells Murderface he’s already looking forward to whatever insults the guy has in store for him. He presses his arched foot onto the pedal, goes back a few channels till Murderface stops him with a shake of the arm. Pickles slaps his hand away once he settles. “Alrighty, what’s the damage this time?”

A boring, late night documentary on the history of glam rock, starring a bunch of no-names who likely majored in music appreciation and realized the only way anyone was going to bother listening to them was to mask their fancy words with flashy images of bands Pickles barely remembers from his youthful days. His tongue drags against the top row of his teeth, tracing the shape of his left incisor while Murderface insults the jackoff with the thick-rimmed glasses donning long, poorly dyed hair. 

“What a fuckin’ tool,” Pickles comments, earning a loud cackle from Murderface.

“For real,” Murderface agrees, then reaches for the bong situated near the edge of the table, and prepares himself a hit.

Pickles is in the middle of grabbing the discarded blanket when he catches the man fingering the bowl. “Oh, lemme have a bit when yer’ done,” he says, thinking he’s got another half-hour in him before passing out for dreamland. He glances at Murderface’s slightly protruding stomach and already fantasizes resting on it right once he’s finished getting stoned. 

Murderface flicks the lighter awake. “Shure thing, dude.”

Then pops a frontline image of Snakes N’ Barrels, and as the screen is hit with a blast of smoke, Pickles hears the usual spiel from the narrators who try to come off more progressive than necessary. Some rando brings up how brave Pickles was for coming out before anyone else, how he was a pioneer for queer representation, what a badass he was for performing right after surgery, blah, blah, same old shit. Pickles takes a deep hit once he’s handed the bong, smiling inwardly as the words on the screen start to blur and intermingle with Murderface’s less than forgiving commentary. A thick finger waves at a much younger, shirtless Pickles posed with an albino anaconda, and the guy nearly retches a cough before breaking into a lisped series of predictable penis jokes. Pickles holds his breath through it, letting the smoke kill whatever reasonable thought he has before spewing it in the direction of a ceiling.

“Holy shit, not bad.” Murderface compliments the solid twirl of smoke as Pickles places the bong back on the table, slumps back into the cushion, then slides further on his right, falling on top of Murderface’s side.

Pickles eyes settle on a debut poster for Snakes N’ Barrel’s summer tour across Asia, and as the nobody historian, musician-whatever dude talks about how androgyny played a role in levelling the field for women performers, Murderface utters a steady whistle. 

“Damn, you’re sho hot in that picture!”

“Thanks, was like…half my age back when I posed fer that,” Pickles comments. High on weed, sugar and nostalgia, Pickles stares at the dying image of his younger counterpart shifting into that of an all-female metal band, and sinks further, head now resting on Murderface’s arm. “Dang, I used t’ be a real hottie.”

Murderface ceases sorting through the caramel corn for chunks of crystalized nuts and turns to face Pickles. “Ushed to?” he asks rhetorically. “Dude, you’re shtill hot.” He rolls his shoulder, stirring Pickles to sit upright. Murderface sets the bowl aside and reclines into the corner of the sofa. “Getting the dreads wash the besht deshision ya did,” he says as Pickles drags some fingers down the corner of his eye.

A tired laugh. “Doesn’ help much against the baldin’.”

“Yeah, but look at you,” Murderface says, gesturing at Pickles’ arm. “ You got bad-ash dreads,  larger muschle mash, and your levels are conshtant now so you getta keep that goatee!”

Pickles rubs the bridge of his nose. “Thanks.”

Murderface leans in as Pickles reopens his reddened eyes, grim eyes shifting to a more suggestive stare. “You know I like your goatee.”

“I know.”

“Sh’real good look on you.” Murderface withdraws a little, rubs the back of his neck as his eyes settle on their covered toes, then adds, “Err, it’sh rugged.”

“Heh, thanks.” Flattered, Pickles brings hand to his goatee, tugs and smiles against the resistance of a full beard.

“Wish I could grow a beard,” Murderface mutters, mirroring Pickles’ movement with his own, and dragging his massive hand across his jawline. “Anyshing I grow comesh up uneven.”

“Nah, dood, yer’ good,” Pickles insists with a short jab of the elbow. “Ya’ aged fine. Yer’ rockin’ the ‘stache.”

“And a beer gut,” Murderface remarks, hands dropping to pat the exposed stomach peeking through shorts and a slightly raised shirt. With the atmosphere covered in a veil of smoke, and Pickles and Murderface already so high, it was impossible to read the words and tone and figure if Murderface was joking or not. Pickles, lacking forethought and a filter, assumes the former. Even at his best, William can be a critical, self-judgmental bastard.

Pickles drops on his hands, rolls his red eyes and shakes his head at Murderface. “Whaddya talkin’ about, dood? That's the best part of you!”

Murderface frowns. “What?”

Pickles raises a finger at Murderface. “Ya used t’ be a skinny, insecure baby-face!” He snickers a wide grin, then jabs his finger at the round gut. “Now yer a  _ real _ man,” he says, opting to pause and enjoy the gentle quake of William’s stomach, and raises his eyes to the widening lime-colored irises dilating at his remark. Pickles laughs. “A real man with a sharp tongue, good humor, thick-ass mustache  _ and _ … soft pillow fer a gut!”

“O-oh, well.” Murderface produces that humble, shy smile he only dares to express when it’s just the two of them.

Pickles eats it up and pushes further. “I mean, ya may not be as manly as  _ this  _ work of art,” he adds, gesturing at himself and earning an exaggerated eye roll from Murderface, “but yer perfectly fine fer snugglin’.”

Even in the dark of the room, and the hazy veil layering Pickles’ vision, he can make out the start of an uncontrolled blush.

Murderface opens his mouth, but only nervous chuckles come out. He scratches the back of his head again, raising a lax shoulder in the process and steering his eyes away as he struggles to add on to the piling list of compliments. Picking on the man’s lowering defenses, Pickles slumps further, arms sliding and body lowering, closing the gap until his head rests comfortably on top of Murderface’s stomach.

He feels Murderface twitch beneath him.

“Look at me, _Will_ ,” Pickles says, and unleashes a mean snicker once Murderface drops to meet his lazy stare. The man’s definitely blushing now, and to top it off, he’s at a loss for words. His lips are curled in, fighting between a frown because he can’t think of anything to say, and a widening grin because he knows what Pickles is going to tell him.

So he says it.

Pickles chuckles up at Murderface. “Ya’ know how I feel ‘bout  _ my _ pillow.”

Some old broad shows her face to the camera. She narrates over some basic-ass music and talks about some band neither men recognize. A face of some unknown singer pops up, and Pickles yawns, flutters his heavy eyelids and brings the blanket up to his shoulders as he stares mindlessly at the screen. Murderface is nice and warm tonight, he thinks, and welcomes the cozy embrace of a cannabis-induced sleep. Underneath, he senses Murderface’s slowed breathing in the form of gentle rises and falls, and before he passes out for the night, feels something rough and wet press against his cheek.


	17. Shooting Star (Nategail)

Abigail wanted “a small dinner,” but when Nathan buys out an entire restaurant for an otherwise uneventful dinner date at a world renowned restaurant, she tells him it’s not what she meant. Later, she mentioned a trip somewhere would be nice, and he tries again, taking her across the country (not several, he points out later to her when she asks him what he was thinking), and again, Nathan wonders where exactly he goes wrong. Abigail requested a relaxing afternoon, but gets upset when Nathan orders klokateers to clear out the park ahead of their arrival, and shoot down any birds that dared interrupt the peace.

Nathan doesn’t get it. He tries asking. Abigail tells him he’s sweet, thoughtful, and that she understands his intent.

“But it’s  _ a lot _ ,” she says, gently putting him down with a soft voice. “And after a long day, I just really need something a bit more down to earth and simple.” She sends him a smile that helps ease the nasty blow he feels. “You understand, right?”

He nods his head at her, but deep down, is reeling in frustration. Were the dates he arranged not simple enough? It wasn’t as though he was already spending less than a few million per date, a mere fraction of what he spent on other, less worthier women.

Pickles is the first to suggest that Nathan take her suggestion into consideration.

“Here me out, what if ya spend only, like, a thousand on her or somethin’?” he says, watching in bemusement when Nathan’s eyes go wide in horror at such a challenge.

“Uh, how am I supposed to impress her if I only spend a grand on her?”

Skwisgaar stops his playing and butts in. “Sometimes it ims not about impresskinks her, but ams about listeninks to her,” he says, smiling at Nathan. “Many of them ladies I brings home just wants someones to talks to, to asks them abouts their day…”

Toki charges forth and mentions Abigail being super tired after a long day of work, and having lots of fun just paling with her, watching dumb shows like  _ Dawson’s Creek _ while listening attentively to her complaints. Nathan considers it, then asks Toki what sort of suggestions he should provide if she does start complaining. Toki shrugs and tells her he doesn’t usually offer solutions.

“Sometimes ams not about giving answers to problems?” he tells Nathan, and when he glances in Skwisgaar and Pickles’ direction and sees the men give an approving nod, reaccesses the thousand-dollar challenge placed on him.

It’s Pickles’ turn again to offer a solution. He tells Nathan of a lake clearing just half an hour’s drive away from Mordhaus. Located in the woods, but not so deep that it's scary. He tells Nathan he’s taken Charles there on a few occasions. Mentions it's peaceful, and at night, reflects the sky perfectly. Satisfaction guaranteed. Skwisgaar tells Nathan to bring a blanket, and make sure it’s big enough for two. He reminds Nathan to ask questions about her day, and not tell her what she did wrong. No offering answers. Toki pipes in again and lets Nathan know all the gross, sugary wines Abigail liked to drink while watching her shows, and what kinds of crackers, cheeses and chips she snacks on during the later hours of the night. Murderface hands him a certified Planet Piss condom and wishes him good luck.

Nathan waits a few days before popping the question, and picks up on her distress when he mentions the hour of the hypothetical date. With a straight face, he tells her not to worry, but this date number four, and the pattern beforehand suggests the opposite. Still, Nathan remembers the notes offered by the band and keeps himself in check when he considers adding more to the event. Fireworks, maybe? Or hire some lousy symphony to play classical crap while they dine under the stars? Maybe he could get a pyrotechnics machine and add a bit of flare to the night? Fancier snacks? Better wine? 

It takes a few blows from Pickles to remind Nathan this isn’t about him impressing her, but about listening.

Keeping it… simple.

* * *

They had been driving for about twenty minutes when Nathan ordered the driver to make a rough left turn, steering the limo off the main road, and onto a more secluded, dirt path. Abigail notices the tinted windows go black once they make the turn, and asks what Nathan has in store for her. He produces a sly grin, but keeps his lips tight. She thinks he’s being coy, but Nathan’s actually quite nervous and his stomach flops at the possibility this is a stupid idea. He attacks the black nail polish with the ends of his thumb nail when she tries peering out the window for any light, a clue to indicate what sort of trickery Nathan had in store for her. Ten minutes later, the vehicle slows to a halt, and Nathan informs Abigail they’d arrived at the spot.

He’s the first to exit the limo, and is greeted by the silent, luminous glow of the moon, followed by that distant shimmer of water wafting in the distance. Nathan is quick to offer Abigail his hand. Still surprised by the short trip, Abigail exits the limo warily, hand clasping Nathan’s tightly as he guides her to the clearing.

Abigail looks around the scene. There are only about a dozen klokateers assigned to the area. Not the several she's used to dealing with. Some hover over a small table hosting a candlelit dinner, while a few more stand by with a cart filled with covered plates of food. Another klokateer holds a bottle of sangria she’s sure she recognizes, and a klokateer approaches the table with amps playing some lo-fi mixes she knows she’s listened to on occasion.

In the distance there’s a massive lake reflecting the moon’s light, shimmering and wafting gently against the late autumn breeze. The clearing blocks off most winds, cuts out most of the moans left being cold gales. It’s…pleasant. Her eyes lift to the speckled night sky hosting an array of sparkling stars and distant galaxies.

“This is…” She feels Nathan squeeze her hand. “Really nice,” she says, dropping her gaze and settling Nathan’s hidden worries with a smile. Their shared relief spread across the scene, and upon meeting her smile, yanks her close into a perfect embrace. Abigail gasps, shuts her eyes and fights a yelp as she’s lifted and spun, and though he utters some high-pitched complaints, enjoys the massive warmth of his arms cradling her form.

The spin ends, and they settle. Abigail rests her head against Nathan’s broad chest. Music continues to play and get lost in the clearing, and after a few seconds of repetitive beats, hears Nathan’s low voice start to pick up on the rhythm and follow along.

_ Obviously _ someone’s had a hand in the planning, she thinks as Nathan begins to sway, inviting her into a stiff, awkward dance that’s more a standing display than actual dancing. Yes, there’s no doubt about it that Nathan received help from outside sources, and Abigail already knows she can blame Toki for the music and booze, but can’t figure who picked out the location, and what genius thought it was a cute idea to try and teach Nathan how to dance to her favorite mixes. But, it  _ is _ cute, and the fact Nathan picked her music over the screams and trills of fast-paced guitars, and drove her someplace so close to home and not a thousand miles away, is more than enough for her. Abigail almost thinks to hand her phone to a gear and have them take a snapshot, but knows this is already a lot for Nathan. The poor guy’s likely out of his element, and is praying that a small buffet of snacks, music with advertisement, and a few fold out chairs set besides a lack will be enough.

He takes to her the table and orders a few gears to serve Abigail her first course. Abigail catches glimpses of his harsh stare ease when he turns, the wrinkles around his eyes vanish each time he turns towards the light to meet her, conservative smile turning bashful and hands clawing at the polish when he finally settles and asks in a shockingly soft voice, “Do you, uhh, like it or not?”

“This is perfect,” she answers, and chuckles when she watches his shoulder drop in relief. To think such a big man could harbor so much worry. She takes his hand in her hers and watches his attention hone in on her fingers clasping. Once trapped, his eyes meet with hers, and they lack their usual grim design, replaced with an open, puppy-eyed look that melts Abigail. “Thank you, Nathan. I…”

A flash of light above catches her attention.

Nathan probes. “Something wrong?”

“Look up.”

He does, and when he breaks from Abigail to meet her in the sky, spots the elongated tails of shooting stars racing across the clear night sky. His hand goes limp in her as he stares at the streams of light bursting through the night sky. Music fades and starts over, and klokateers raise lanterns in the surrounding trees to help establish a stronger mood, though neither date seem to notice or care.

Nathan squeezes her hand. “S’real nice.”

“Very pretty.”

He’s head drops, and Abigail catches the unnatural flow of dark hair temporarily obscuring his face before he fixes it, then faces her.

“Not as pretty as you,” he declares with a steady, but gentle whisper.

Abigail’s confident none of the boys told him to be humble, and finds the uncharacteristic change in tone endearing. Shifting between the stars above, and the one facing her at the table, Abigail determines the night a success, and figures she’ll ask Nathan which members of the band helped guide him through the night at a later point in time. For now, she lets Nathan have this, and immerses herself in the simple, but effective spectacle of their date.

“You’re sweet, Nate,” she says, leaning forward and holding in a snort when he hesitates, holds a charge, but then adjusts his movement to carefully meet her halfway. A large star shoots across the sky, flashing a ray of light above him, and Abigail can make out something promising in the man’s eyes, handsome features she’s noticed, but never acknowledged until now.

Another star hails light over them as one shadow closes the gap, startling the other with an unexpected, but welcomed kiss. 


	18. Not Wearing That (Magtok)

The first set of earrings Toki devised consisted of nickel wire and plastic rhinestones with holes drilled in their center. With just the use of one hand, he cobbled a decent set, then raised one into the light. He tried to appreciate the cheap jewelry not just as a small thing that he had completed in under an hour, but the first trinket he had made without anyone’s help–not since his arm was encased in a cast. But when he dropped his good arm to place the earrings in a small plastic container, saw the half-completed figurines and plane models collecting dust on shelves and turned resentful over the cheap DIY jewelry kit Magnus bought him to placate the fact that, without the help of a full set of skilled hands, he couldn’t complete the far more studious and time consuming projects that once consumed his free time.

“What did you make there, buddy?” Magnus had said right when Toki shut the container with a rough smack from a frustrated fist.

Unwilling to meet the older man in the eyes, Toki answered dejectedly. “Nothins. Just somes girly earrings.”

 _“Girly?”_ Magnus commented with a shift in tone. He rested his elbows on top of the sofa and saw the muted red through the clear plastic covering.

“Yeah,” Toki said with a mutter. He flipped through the short guidebook filled with suggestive activities and frowned. “Ams stupid, Magnus.”

“I tried, man.”

Toki gasped, flipped himself around as best he could to retract this statement. “No, nots you!”

Though the gift was juvenile and far too simplistic for Toki’s liking, he was far from being overly critical of it. Toki knew the simple arts and crafts gift was Magnus’ way of trying to keep him entertained and distracted while he healed. Unlike Toki, Magnus wasn’t as patient with the grander, more intricately designed models. He had tried putting the bottom half of a plane together a few weeks ago, all under Toki’s careful supervision, but the strain of staring through a magnifying glass with his one good eye, coupled with the orders and suggestions that, even with Toki’s help, resulted in a less than adequate design, left both looking for alternatives. Since Toki wasn’t a fan of sketching or writing for hours on end, and because clay and sewing didn’t quite reach him in the same way as constructing did, the jewelry kit was, at least for Magnus, a solid enough stepping stone for one-handed entertainment.

Toki sighed as he caught a brief glance of dismay in Magnus’ eyes. “I likes that you gots me this,” he insisted, then returned to the front of the seat, scooped up the small plastic box and popped the top open. The two earrings lay tucked in the corner, the nickel wiring of one earring already finding a way to tangle with its companion. “Just…looks so dumbs compared to whats I knows I can makes.”

Manus offered his hand. “Lemme see?”

It was the last thing Toki wanted. After spending an afternoon constructing a mecha from scratch, putting together a flyable plane with Magnus, and even teaching Magnus the basics of designing any sort of model (just snapping and organizing the numbered pieces proved to be a challenge for him), two earrings of breakable metal and plastic seemed so painfully miniscule in comparison.

But Magnus' hand refused to leave Toki’s side, and after a rather loud huff, he shoved the box into his palm.

Magnus gave no clear sign of offense from the gesture, and poured the earrings into his palm. With careful maneuver from his fingers, he freed one and raised the tiny earring up to better view it under the light. “Not bad.”

“You ams being polite.”

“Is this maroon?” Magnus inquired, not paying mind to Toki as he rolled his eyes at the question. He placed one earring back into the box, then took the second and brought it close to his good eye. “Looks like maroon to me.”

Toki sank into the corner of the sofa, legs picking up and free arm enveloping them as he returned to the jewelry kit. A decent array of colors, pieces of fake rhinestones, funny shapes and flowers twinkled before him. He was sure he might have enjoyed such a present if he had access to both hands. As silly as some of the shapes and designs were, in some other, less extreme scenario, Toki was sure he’d come up with something far more impressive than two stud earrings barely held together with glue and wire.

The top of the sofa groaned momentarily as Magnus placed a hand on top of it, then picked up his weight and jumped over the couch, right beside (and partly on top) of Toki. Toki jumped, buried deeper into his corner while Magnus apologized for his rough landing with a cautious grin, then reopened his one hand with the earring in it, and carefully began parting the back from the nickel.

Then he saw Magnus bring the split earring to his right ear.

“Whats ams you–?” Toki’s eyes fell agape once he saw Magnus wince trying to locate the hole near the base of his earlobe. Toki grimaced. “No, don’t puts them on!”

“Why not? You don’t think I look good in red?”

Toki reached to stop Magnus, but the larger man pulled away, dragging himself to the other side of the couch as he worked the earring through a near-closed hole.

He pouted right as Magnus drew a single tear from his right eye, but smiled victoriously at what Toki assumed was getting the darn thing through the hole. His eyes wandered back to the shelf of incomplete projects, and became incredibly self-conscious. “They ams stupids.”

“I don’t think they’re stupid.”

“Yeah, buts–” Toki tried to stop Magnus from clipping the back end of the earring with the metal. This time Magnus left the sofa, and stood just out of reach. Through frantic breathing, Toki could make out the distinct click that locked the earring into place, and saw Magnus drop his arms in success before returning to sit next to Toki.

He sat close, but kept some space as Toki stared indignantly at the earring that Magnus shoved into his earlobe. It was this small, red mark, and because Magnus had been so careless with putting it on, meant the fake rhinestone had to compete with the glowing red skin now puffing around it. Magnus fought against the heat developing on the side of his face with a short fanning, and he waited for Toki to calm down and his expression to ease along with the swell of his earlobe before carefully inching his way to Toki’s corner.

He placed a hand upon Toki’s leg, awaiting permission to come closer. Toki swallowed the self-pity, choked on the anger directed at himself, at Magnus for not being nearly as upset as he was, and finally gave a little nod. Seconds later, the hand glided up his arm, and when it became too much to look at the nearly completed B-52 plane that rested on the topmost shelf, Toki seceded and fell into Magnus. His good arm coiled around him, and Toki buried his face into the man’s shirt, sniffing and feeling so damn stupid, so angry and just tired of feeling all the thoughts and sensations and–

“It’s alright,” Magnus said, and Toki exhaled a nasty shudder that let out the ugly thoughts that had started to swirl in his head.

Toki shook his head. “M’sorries.”

“It’s ok.”

“Nots mad at yous.”

“I know.”

Toki pressed his face into the man’s chest and felt the few tears he had fade into Magnus’ top. “Nots mad at yous, just mads at To–”

“Shush. Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” Magnus held Toki, letting the younger man’s uncontrolled breathing return to a more shallow, but even rhythm.

He didn’t take any offense to the attitude. The anger. Magnus couldn’t fathom the level of hypocrisy on his behalf if he did, given everything he once put Toki through. And he understood. It was one thing to be so injured that one couldn’t do a damn thing about it, another when one was almost healed, but still couldn’t enjoy all the small pleasantries because they weren’t quite healed enough.

Magnus waited until Toki returned to him, then spoke with a friendly smile. “Look at me,” he said, then pointed at the studded rhinestone budding through his puffy earlobe. “What do you think?”

Toki peered up at the tiny bead. “Kinda smalls for your ears.”

“Ok, but aside from that?”

Swelling aside, it didn’t look too bad. At least while it was on Magnus, one couldn’t point out the cheap make of the nickel, and with Magnus’ dark hair surrounding the jewelry, gave the fake rhinestone a more vibrant shimmer when it did hit the light.

Toki replied, “Not bads, I guess.”

“You _guess_?” Magnus asked, acting so offended Toki had no choice but to roll his eyes at him.

“Ams ok.” Toki slid downward, falling on top of Magnus’ now stretching legs. “Sorries…”

Magnus placed his hand on Toki’s waist, providing a soothing pet that helped lull Toki to close his eyes and fall into a more fulfilling state of calm. He tried shifting to his stomach, but the weight of his cast alerted him to keep still. He huffed again and let Magnus toy with his shirt, play with his hair, pet and tickle his exposed side.

Toki peered up. Magnus’ hair slipped over his shoulder, and the gaps between long, lush curls broke and let out rays of light that, like before, gave the fake rubies a pretty glow. Maybe it was only because Magnus was wearing it, but the earring really didn’t look at that bad on him. It was his color. Once the swelling went down, and Magnus put his hair up, it would only look nicer, too. And it was his first pair of jewelry, Toki thought, turning more on his back and letting his exposed front fall victim to Magnus’ probing fingers.

Magnus tapped a silent beat across Toki’s chest while Toki returned to the small box filled with colorful pieces of gemstones, flowers and other wonderful shapes. Magnus wouldn’t go for the later, but perhaps he might be interested in helping him devise some copper wire rings, or at least model for them while Toki attempted to create one with just his one good hand. Though the kit didn’t come with skulls, Toki was confident he saw tiny beaded skulls in the craft store. He could ask Magnus to buy him some, and once he was better acquainted with the tools, could try making him a better constructed ring to go along with his studs.

“Ams a good gift,” Toki said after some time.

“I tried,” Magnus murmured, dropping his head a little so Toki could pick up on his voice.

He glanced upwards, catching the shimmer of the red plastic stretching and bringing out the rich brown of Magnus’ iris. “At leasts whens you ams wearing it… ams a good gift.”

Magnus chuckled. “So you _do_ think I look good?”

Toki smiled. “Mhmm.”

“Well, I can’t speak for all these shapes, but–” Magnus wrapped his arms over Toki’s chest, dragging him up a few inches to help close the incoming gap as he drew closer, lowering his head and resting his lips on top of Toki’s forehead. “I’d really like it if you made me something in black.” The cool tip of his nose brushed across Toki’s brow, causing his eyelids to flutter against the contrasting heat. “Maybe forest green? Or navy blue? I don’t know. What do you think, dude?”

It really was a nice gift.


	19. Shackles (MagSeth)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story contains swearing, reference to suicide, homophobic words, and implied sexual content.

“Just you wait and see, Seth,” Magnus chimes with a low hum. He flops onto the cheap hotel bed, folds his long arms behind his head and utters another hectic cackle.

Seth merely glances at the reflection and can tell there’s no point in trying to butt-in once Magnus gets started. He waits for the opportune moment, when Magnus is done devising his fantastical conspiracies, then meets his stare in the mirror and says, “Right, Mags.” 

“We’re so close.” Magnus kicks off a boot. “I’ve made the calls. Spoken with the man.”

“Uh-huh.”

Another boot flies into the air. In the reflection, Seth watches as Magnus jerks about, trying and failing to relax. It’s always a sight to behold. Seth’s seen some passionate men, but Magnus puts it to a whole other level. His wild hair drapes over each sharp, frantic movement, and once he catches Seth’s curious stare, misinterprets it as similar, unhinged interest. “He’s going to meet with us real soon.” 

Seth nods at the reflection. “Sure ‘ting, Mags.”

“We’ll have Dethklok where we want them!” Magnus declares with a near crazed yell. He curls himself back up, sitting upright and following Seth’s movement as he breaks from the mirror. “I’ll finally…we’ll–” 

Seth circles around the bed, not minding the moans of old springs that he’s since grown accustomed to. No hotel bed can compare to the plush mattresses of his glory days, but Seth finds comfort in knowing he’s sharing his bed with better company.

“We’ll get our revenge, yeah?” Seth finishes, plastering a cocky grin that riles up the taller of two, gets Magnus crawling to the edge of the bed, slipping away and reappearing behind Seth the moment he slides the closet shut.

Long fingers curl and dig into Seth’s shoulder. “I’ll make your brother pay.” 

Seth feels the longing under the pressure, though he can’t say whether it’s for him, or for revenge.

It’s admittedly getting harder to tell with Magnus. 

Seth glances down at the remains of the cheap suits he’s wearing, thinks of a time where he’d have maids throw Versace tops that had stains on them from a life of overabundance, and when it flashes to now, to Magnus breathing up his neck and telling him he’ll make him feel like a man again, Seth admits to himself that it’s getting harder for him to tell what he wants more. 

There was a time where he’d obsessed over the prospects of getting his revenge on the band; more specifically, the woman Pickles hired to accost and tempt his now ex-wife. Though he worked under Dethklok, he wasn’t granted nearly the same access to privileges once the papers arrived. No big surprise, Amber and her girlfriend did. A nasty divorce and powerful lawyers left Seth with hardly anything. A few days later, he received a call from Mordhaus letting him know Amber and her lesbo-girlfriend were going to be handling Australia from here on end. 

Revenge consumed his mind back then. Other thoughts, too. It was right about when Seth received his farewell basket from Dethklok, and those darker thoughts began to seep through cracks of his broken mind, did Magnus appear before him. Right out of the shadows, and donning a handsome grin that reminded Seth of the bible. Something about the devil being handsome. Couldn’t remember the whole saying, but Seth could tell just by looking at him he was nothing but trouble, and considering Dethklok’s gift basket came with a loaded gun, was thankful Magnus had arrived just in the nick of time.

For a while, their obsession for revenge was enough to keep them together. They’d bitch and gripe about how Dethklok always had it easy, how much harder they had to work just to get some meager scraps of validation, only to have the band proceed to fuck them while they were down. Seth laughed when Magnus told him about the knife and the stabbing. He felt for the older man when he described how his creative input was squashed, literally pummeled into the ground by the lead singer. Magnus listened attentively to Seth’s recited childhood memories starring a smaller, weaker Pickles. He paid attention, asked questions about Seth’s past that made him feel important. Seth told Magnus of his dream to win Amber back, to get back at that bitch Abigail. Seth told Magnus he didn’t even need Amber, because all women were disloyal anyways, so what was the point. Seth told Magnus not to worry about the gray, because it made him look cool. The eye made him look intimidatin’. No shirt? _No problem._

Then something happens. Nine months pass, and neither of them are any closer than when they started. Sure, Mags gets a call from some unknown number, and if Seth is lucky, he catches a few words of the harsh graveled voice on the other line while Magnus takes notes and directions. They drive around to various states, pick up some folks so shady Seth spends the remainder of the drive eyeing the glove compartment with the hunting knife in it, preparing for the worst. They drop off the spooks in some undisclosed location, meet with even spookier names and faces that Seth can’t believe are real, and then they start all over. Like this evening, Magnus brings up the occasional promised meeting, but it never arrives. There’s always a setback. A change of plans. 

“What’s wrong?” Magnus breathes the words into Seth’s neck. Hands slide under the bottom of his faded shirt, and the same probing fingers from before consume Seth’s senses. Magnus purrs a loving noise into his ear. “Come on,” he says, “tell me what you plan on doing with those women…”

He hasn’t thought about Amber for days. Hard to think about some useless woman when he’s got the dictionary definition of “tall, dark and handsome” tasting every inch of him whenever he has the chance. Weirdly enough, it's the same handsome fellow that’s making him think of her in the first place. 

But that’s the problem, now. It’s almost been a year, and now Seth is over the divorce. He’s done thinking about whatever the hell Amber and that girlfriend of her’s are up to, and he’s sure as shit doesn’t want to think about them running Dethklok Australia. He doesn’t want to think about anything related to Dethklok. He’s sick of Dethklok, and if it weren’t for Magnus’ unyielding obsession, would have told the guy to “give it up,” and with the rest of their money, drive their asses to Vegas. He wants to take Magnus to see his favorite burlesque show, use the last of his assets on a nice dinner, and maybe have a nasty threesome with the guy. If there’s one thing he wants with Magnus, it’s sleeping in a nice bed with him. Just for one night.

He doesn’t want to spend the last of his draining account recruiting stooges. He doesn’t want to spend another dime on Dethklok. 

Hands wrap around Seth’s lanky waist. “ _Seth_.”

Another blink, and Seth feels the weight of the band pressing against his back, but when he blinks a second time, realizes it’s only Magnus holding on to him. Slightly shaken, Seth shudders. “Take the lead, Mags,” he says through closing eyes. “Yer, uhh, really getting’ me rollin’. Keep talkin’ about what yer going to do with that Euro-dood.”

Magnus won't. Won't, or maybe can’t, but whatever the case, the guy’s obsessed with Dethklok to the extreme. Magnus talks about their rabid fans, but doesn’t see the irony when he spends late nights ranting about how he was wronged, how shitty each member is, how he’s got to get his revenge on them, gotta finalize his plans. He doesn’t seem to mind spending what little he has all in the name of revenge. Revenge for Dethklok. Seth’s asked a few times what those plans were, but never got a straight answer from Mags. It was then he knew he couldn’t say anything at all, because Magnus didn’t have a plan, and the second Seth dared to bring it up, risked losing the only thing that was currently keeping them together. 

Not revenge…

“Soon, Seth,” Magnus sighs lovingly into Seth’s ear. His arms return around Seth’s waist, wrapping him into a gentle embrace. “Everything you wanted will come to fruition soon. I’ll make it happen.”

Seth says nothing, but gives a sound that Magnus takes for a sigh. He draws closer, taking blankets and sheets with him. Magnus gives Seth an affectionate squeeze, one that makes him want nothing more than to see Magnus happy, but also sends another dreaded shudder at the press of his hands, and is reminded of the shackles that keep Magnus locked in place.

The very thing he wants nothing to do with.

The only thing holding them together.

Dethklok.


	20. "You're Literally Bleeding" (Chickles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: contains violence; blood; drinking; swearing

There was a mix-up with the orders, and instead of three shots of whiskey each, they ended up with tequila, and although Pickles’ tasted the smooth, flaming simmer of agave pouring down his throat, couldn’t be bothered to stop Nathan until he had his fill. By then, the lug had conquered all three and then some, and was feasting on their shared plate of jalapeño poppers. He ought to have said something then, maybe call a gear or two to inform them of the incoming storm, but there were only two poppers and one fried potato skin left, and there was no way in hell Pickles was going to wait another ten minutes for some bacon and heavily processed cheese.

As was per usual, the tequila reached the intestines and the shit soon hit the fan, and Pickles found himself on the floor, crawling on his elbows and trying to reach for the door before things got any bloodier. There was a swarm of civilians already racing out the door, fear-driven and eager to flee from an overly aggressive Nathan, and in that attempt to escape, got lodged between themselves. A violent ripple effect initiated, and before long everyone was throwing fists at one another. By that point, Pickles had given up on trying to be reasonable. Some douchenozzle stepped on his hand, and another knocked off his hat. Though it would only cause a bigger ruckus, Pickles started throwing punches, knocking teeth out with a few slugs as he slowly made his way towards the parking lot.

He didn’t consider the lack of keys an issue until their murdercycle came to view.

Pickles tried to double back, but bumped into some drunk asshole, who took their accidental contact as a personal challenge. Guy was almost as big and broad as Nathan, but that didn’t stop Pickles from ducking and tossing a few blows to the stomach before attempting to retreat from his stunned enemy.

A light fell upon Pickles right as a massive arm came swinging towards him. It grazed his chin, pushing bottom teeth straight into the top row, and sent Pickles back with an ailing ring across his brow. Someone large approached him while he stumbled and fell. His right arm took the brunt of the impact, elbow scraping from the drag. Jaw reeling, Pickles wondered if diplomacy was still an option, but when he raised his head up, saw someone hanging from the hellicopter’s ladder.

Pickles waved a hand at the sky. “Charles!”

Light focused on Pickles and the drunkard, uncontrolled onslaught surrounding him. The aircraft lowered, and Charles jumped from the bottom ladder, landed with a roll, and with calculated grace, brought himself to a stand at the tail end. He reapplied his glasses, pushed them up the fine bridge of his nose when the same drunkard from before attempted to land a blow. Charles caught the man’s hand in his own, pulled him forward, and slammed his neck against his kneecap.

As the attacker fell, Charles observed the violent scene. Clusters of brutes, truckers, and other fine examples of society were all busily engaged in some brawl. Towards the center, klokateers surrounded Nathan.

Charles returned to Pickles, kneeling over to help resituate him. “How many bottles?”

“Just three shawts,” Pickles answered, right eye wincing as Charles wiped away bits of gravel that collected across his cheek.

“Ah, right then.” Relieved at the number, and feeling quite confident of his prospects, Charles took his time to help Pickles up, dusting off his right side before returning to slam a fist into the center of another man’s gut.

“Gawd damn,” Pickles said, licking his lips as Charles took down his second victim. Freckled lanky arms crossed his chest, clutching their opposites while Pickles sucked in a charge breath of adrenaline soaked air. From his inner coat, Charles pulled out a pocket knife, aimed, and threw it in the general direction of a group trying to overwhelm some hoods. A scream signified a successful attack, and Pickles let out an airy, excited exhale. He watched Charles trek deeper into the chaos, suit perfectly fitted to form and hair fixed in place, calling our orders for gears to settle around Nathan, and to prepare for rescue and pick-up.

Then, Charles turned, and his eyes opened wide in sudden panic. “Pickles, look out!”

Pickles heard the warning amid the groans and firing squad, and when he looked over his shoulder, saw someone racing towards him. Reflexively, he brought his arms in, defense pose poised for the beat-down to come. Then he noticed the lengthy knife in the bastard’s hand, and turned pale.

“Shit,” he muttered, breaking a fist and swearing at himself for not paying better attention to his surroundings. He didn’t want to end up with a blooded hand, but a few weeks without playing was better than a stab wound to the gut. Pickles raised a hand up, readied to grip the end of the blade. The knife raised high above him, vanishing under the sweat fog and flashy club neon lights, and when Pickles tried to defend himself, was pulled aside. He fell back, stumbled and returned to the rough concrete flooring.

When Pickles looked up, Charles was there, gripping the knife. Mouth agape, Pickles watched Charles’ controlled expression harden, wrinkles centering as he sustained the edge of the blade with one hand, brought his other to the man’s cheek. It took three quick swings for the bastard to draw back, and a rough kick into his side to drop the knife and the man to his knees.

Charles returned to Pickles once he was sure his third victim was no longer a cause for concern. He offered his good hand. “Are you alright?”

Pickled homed on the cut hand dangling by the side. “Is that blood?” he asked, though he could clearly make out a fine stream flowing down Charles’s middle and ring finger, dropping and collecting into a puddle.

Charles shrugged. “Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-”

“You are literally bleeding.”

Charles glanced at his left hand, eyes filling with indifference at the wound now soaking his cuff of his shirt.

“Sorry. I didn’t want you to, ah, damage the goods,” he said, hiding the bloodied arm as he pulled Pickles to a stand. The smaller man fell into a semi embrace, his arms wrapping greedily around Charles, one hand in search of the wounded one.

Wet, warm slippage. The ends of Charles’ eyes winced from the intimacy, nerves searing with obstructive pain. Pickles had to settle for the wrist.

“Ya dumbass,” he hissed, then drew his other hand back just to hit Charles a few times against the chest.

“Sir, we’ve secured Master Explosion!”

Charles gave a firm nod, then with his good hand, snatched Pickles’ attacking appendage. “To the hellicopter” he said, looking deep into Pickles’ wary eyes, calming them with a silent order to follow.

Looking at the ground, and finding several droplets of red speckling the floor, Pickles knew they had to hurry.

“Right.”

Most of the attackers were now on the floor, either subdued by klokateers, or done in by another stranger’s aggressive force. Hand in hand, Charles and Pickles maneuvered around unconscious or dead bodies, leaving behind their own trail of red as they gathered near the resting aircraft. As they got near, someone stumbled forward. The guy was a mess, head covered in gravel and drying blood, and hardly worth the challenge, but Pickles knew he had Charles’ good hand in his own, which meant the handsome fool would try to attack with the bloodied one. Pickles refused to let it happen. Without warning, he let go of Charles, slid forward, and lunged.

“Pickles!”

Thankfully, there was plenty of time for Pickles to make an impact. With the weight of his body, he brought the man down. The head slammed into the concrete, but Pickles went and formed two fists and threw in a punch to the cheek, another straight at the nose for good measure. A nice, wet snap certified a job well done, but Pickles rested dutifully on the large chest until Charles arrived to pick him up one final time.

Charles brought his bloodied hand up to his forehead. “Pickles, you-”

Catching the wounded hand and stained suit, Pickles snickered.

“Didn’t want to _further_ damage my goods,” he said, brows giving a suggestive wiggle.

A light shade of pink dared to shine across Charles’ otherwise controlled face. Pickles laughed, watching Charles excuse himself and cover the fleeting blush with the good hand pointlessly rearranging his glasses. Gears called the two forth. The aircraft’s engine roared alive, and from within, Pickles saw Nathan seated, half-alert and covered in a blanket.

Pickles grabbed the ladder rope, waiting on Charles who fired a few warning rounds before grabbing Pickles’ hand. He caught the slightest of whimpers, withdrew quickly and aimed for the wrist one more. Just as the aircraft lifted, Pickles used his strength and pulled Charles into his arms, breaking into a lopsided smile as the older man huffed, convinced the injury he endured wasn’t that big of a deal. Not willing to argue, Pickles merely rolled his eyes, and as the aircraft lifted into the skies, thanked him with a kiss on the cheek.


	21. "Stay" (Magtok)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Depressing thoughts

Magnus hid himself under several layers of blankets, sheets and covers, blinding himself in an overbearing atmosphere of stuffiness and self-loathing. Moist, heated anger plumed through each short exhale, filling his tented world with the nasty, stale taste of warmed air, mixing with the smell of human skin and sweat permanently etched into the covers. A simple rearrangement of the layers, or the creation of the smallest exit point would suffice in making his stay a bit more bearable, but Magnus refused to exit the fetal position, choosing instead to burrow deep, get lost in the rage that tethered him to the mattress, and recount his side of what he felt was an unfair situation.

He spent hours lost in his dwelling, fixing on words that pained him the most, on voices that argued for his case, and those haunting whispers that informed him he never had the talent, that he was too difficult to work with, too slow, too old. He grabbed fluffy blankets and smothered himself, pushed plush cotton and acrylic firmly against his mouth and nose to muffle his breath, to prepare for screams he never bothered unleashing, and drag the soft material over dry eyes that refused to listen to the heart’s pleas. He stretched, withdrew, faced a wall he couldn’t see, and fantasized about grabbing his wrongdoers and slamming their faces against it. He rolled over to his left side and imagined a world where he could get away with such an act, thought about proving everyone wrong and leave the bed to practice and get work done, dwelled on it longer and eventually gave up. He sighed into warm sheets, eyes shutting and revealing a blackness somehow lighter than the one surrounding him. His head spun with insults, most directed at the ones who rejected his work, but regarded the few that he concocted just for his miserable self.

Because he _was_ difficult to work with, and even when he cooperated, applied as minimal of a creative voice as he could without warranting an argument, the work he produced was less than sublime. His work was mediocre, constrained and tied down with too many demands. His art was misunderstood, rejected on the principle of it being too conservative, repetitious, too classical for today’s tastes or, god forbid, not sounding enough like Dethklok. The final thought stabbed him, a dull knife that edged itself deep into the muscles, wriggled and tore at fibers, and bore a jagged, concentrated pain that, despite Magnus having faced before, never got any easier to bear. If anything, he was tired of it, exhausted of rejection and being ignored.

Mental and emotional fatigue eventually got the better of him. Still fully clothed, Magnus wrapped himself in the blankets, the defeat, the topmost covers and the “they’re right, you know,” and he shut his eyes, letting uneven breaths and absolute resolve to not leave for the remainder of the day guide him to a dreamless sleep. The pain muted, died down, replaced with the concentration of the comforting plush, the softness of the mattress, familiar warmth shaped from his own anger, and Magnus slept.

He woke up to the bedroom door’s creak, a gentle wail that alerted him he was no longer alone.

“Hey, Magnus.”

Magnus immediately shirked at the sound of his name, retracting further into his curled position, hands shielding his face in the dark.

Some inches away, the mattress sank. He blinked, feeling gravity direct him to the sink. Magnus shifted under the weighted blankets. He felt the force of a god hovering over him, invisible under the permanent, starless night sky he created, but still prominent and rendering Magnus with a dry, scratchy throat.

“You hungries?” the gentility of the voice condensed Magnus further, entrapping him with the now wakened feelings of inadequacy. “Thirsties?”

There was no drive to tell him to leave, to not waste his time. Magnus knew keeping anyone in his world too long would only leave him resentful. He was committed to ruining just one day, and didn’t want to drag down another.

“Does you needs anythinks?”

He didn’t want to talk about it, either. There was only something so cathartic about having to repeat the same troubles over and over, and to the same person, without appearing insane. Like he was crazy. Too emotional, like a woman. Overthinking matters. Making things more than what they had to be. Lots of people fail. He failed more than others. It was that simple. They were right, he was wrong. No point in arguing over facts. No reason to fight.

“Wants Toki to leave?”

An exhale escaped his nostrils, fogging his tiny world and lining his face with a sticky moisture. The throat itched and ached, and when Magnus tried to swallow, it spread up his neck and settled into the back of his eyes. After some time, the weight in front of him lifted, and as Magnus thanked himself for another job well done at pushing someone away, the pain that had obscured him suddenly gave way, replaced with a greater desire to suffer in company, to sink together, or possibly be saved, if he was worth the trouble.

“No.” Magnus stared out into the darkness of their shared bed, eyes agape at the single word he had mustered, heaved with everything he had in him. He waited a moment longer, waiting for the sink, Toki’s weight to return and drag him closer to the edge of the bed. When it didn’t arrive, Magnus broke from his balled form, hand reaching for the end of all blankets to create that needed reprieve.

He tore through. “Stay.”

His arm retracted, and with it, the intense light of the day that Magnus wasn’t ready to bear. He fell back towards the center, sinking into his creation, his mental cage and soft sinkhole, but as Magnus brought his legs closer to his chest, winced at the break of the light now piercing his shrinking world. He saw the silhouetted figure of an arm, an outstretched hand reaching in the dark, probing for him. Blankets and covers closed around it, and as Toki drew forward, his large form filled around the opening, covering the light, but leaving a fine line for Magnus to clearly make out that single star in his otherwise empty horizon.

Toki’s hand turned, palm open in search of its lost companion.

Using the rest of his strength, Magnus took it.


	22. Bedtime stories (Implied Magtok and Magnate)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a oneshot I wrote a while back in November. I'd been dancing around the idea of Magnate for a while. Decided to spruce this up and add a bit more to Nathan's memory of Magnus. 
> 
> Warning: implied pining, one-sided feelings 
> 
> Rating: G

Toki’s never been one to leave his door closed. Nathan’s used to passing by the small room, sometimes at the earliest hours of the morning, and find the door agape, lighting aglow and showing off the interworking of Toki’s short, erratic attention span. He’s seen Toki hunched at his desk, indulged in the time-consuming process of building model planes, and he’s watched Toki engaged in a tantrum, tossing his controller and screaming at the television screen. He’s glimpsed at Toki coloring, tossing his crayons against the wall and complaining about the mess he made with his stuffed animals. Front row seats to Toki rocking. Toki dissecting his actions figures. Toki purposefully breaking his things. There are nights where Toki frantically rearranges his room, and times where Nathan approaches the stretched light and hears the young man muttering, but often pitifully whining, in another language. There are cold, silent nights where the door _ is _ closed, and Nathan can still pick up the sounds of whimpers and stifled cries. There are instances where Nathan knocks, fewer where he enters and talks to the guy. Sometimes Nathan cleans. Picks up robots with missing legs, or ones that contain screws where they shouldn’t be. Most often, he enters, stares and waits for the trauma to end, for Toki to unwind and finally pass out, before leaving him to face his dreams alone. 

...

It’s nearing one in the morning when Nathan’s throat tires, and he concludes another successful night recording lines with Pickles. After they split, Nathan enters the familiar hallway that eventually leads to his room, and on his way, finds the long, orangey light emitting from Toki’s bedroom. Like before, he thinks little of the dimly lit room, but notices a gentle sound emitting from it as he approaches.

Kid is sleeping at the desk, he thinks when he catches something muffled, gentle like slow breathing. The thought to turn off the lamplight and let Toki sleep uninterrupted arises. Nathan considers it as he reaches the room, figuring if the floor isn’t covered with too much crap, he’ll give Toki a break this time. His pace slows as he heads for the door, footsteps adjusting and soles rolling to muffle his sounds, and when he gets close, Nathan picks up on a conversation.

“…milks and apples?”

Toki’s talking. He’s whispering to someone. A conversation centered on food.

Nathan readies his hand, already thinking to tell Toki it’s getting late, too late for a midnight snack, but a raspy chuckle stops him.

“Hold up, dude. We got one paragraph left.” 

It’s Magnus’ voice.

Nathan’s chest tightens, muscles instinctively bracing for an incoming attack that won’t happen. Magnus isn’t here, not really, but his voice is enough to make Nathan’s bottom jaw ache from the subconscious grind, his heart bend under the weight of mixed, complex emotions he still struggles to define. 

Nathan withdraws from the door, furthers himself away until he can barely register the conversation taking place. No, not a conversation. He picks up on Magnus’ voice, the solidity and clarity as he carefully pronounces each word. It’s a recital. It’s him narrating. It’s Magnus telling Toki the story of a bunch of dumb animals trying to run a farm, and in all likelihood, it’s also Magnus trying to induct Toki in his bullshit philosophy. 

Nathan knows this game, and recalls a time where he was Magnus’ favorite subject. 

In the dark, Nathan listens. It’s a few sentences of Magnus gently concluding a chapter to a fatigued Toki, and by the time Nathan remembers the finer details, the windmill and Magnus ranting about how their country will end up in the same sad state as the farm, it’s over. There’s silence, the sound of Toki shifting in his bed, and Nathan drawing closer to catch Magnus’ next set of words. 

“Alright, we’re done with chapter three. What do you think?”

A pause. Nathan worries Toki will confess to a lack of understanding, but then he suddenly speaks up. “Don’t thinks it ams fair the pigs gets all the apples.”

Another chuckle. “Well, I don’t think it’s fair either.”

A blanket kicks up. Something folds. The mattress groans. “I thinks all the animals should be sharins,” he hears Toki say into the phone. 

“I feel the same way, Toke.”

“Why didn’t the pigs share, Magnus?”

A simple, but foolish question, Nathan thinks. It suggests more than a lack of understanding, but gives away that Toki doesn’t comprehend the deeper layers, and that this is just another story about talking animals, and not about total-lit-tar-whatever-ism, and all the other things he and Magnus talked about, so many years ago. 

The thought enters. A buried memory pierces the surface. Nathan’s bottom lip curls inward as he relives an image of Magnus lying on top of the sofa, pages held open with thumb and pinky. A humid, Florida evening. Broken air conditioner, and the two of them shirtless, trying to compensate, fight the sticky heat. Television on the fritz, and because it was the end of the month, Magnus tells Nathan he’ll distract him with a story. Magnus tells him of a dystopian future where everyone’s at the bottom, where there are worker bees and handful of queens at the very top. Metaphor after metaphor, and Magnus constantly combing away wild locks because he’s so excited, tongue tripping at the increasing velocity of his words.

Nathan remembers, and admired that side of Magnus. Magnus, who always had something to say, who unleashed a crashing wave of information that, although sometimes incomprehensible to Nathan, sounded good. Vocabulary and phrases Nathan recalls being uttered during his senior year at high school, but never absorbed the meaning. Unknown terms and speeches Magnus drowned Nathan with, along with the occasional slant grin, the hand against his back, and rich brown eyes encircling a pure abyss that Nathan once wanted to swim towards. Words from a smile Nathan wished he could comprehend, appreciate and respond to, but never could. That was a problem. Like Toki, the grand speeches didn’t always sink well with him. 

Nathan stares out, mind reeling over instances where Magnus would constantly try to insert it, to force it into Nathan’s head, his thoughts and his messages. Cram. Shove. Jam. Hammer it all in, and when none of it stuck, and Nathan never applied, Manus got mad. Grew cold, distant and resentful.

Poor Toki, Nathan thinks, and awaits Magnus’ vengeful attack on the kid’s lack of intelligence.

“Well... why do  _ you _ think the pigs won’t share?”

The question takes Nathan by surprise. He almost second guesses, thinks maybe it was Toki who asked, but then hears Toki hum aloud and guess it’s because the pigs want to keep the good food for themselves, which is why they lied in the first place. Nathan hears another chuckle, this one louder, and approving.

“So, you  _ know  _ they’re lying?”

There’s a giggle from Toki. “Ams not a very good excuse,” he says. Magnus agrees, tells Toki he’s on to something, and the compliment earns a stupid little noise from Toki. “I wonders if the animals will change their minds about them pigs…”

“You’ll have to wait later, man.”

“Oh, why nots now?”

“My break ends in about five,” Magnus replies. Nathan hears the disappointing sigh emitting from Toki. Nathan hates to hear it. He hates the rise it gives Magnus knowing Toki wants him to continue reading. The silence in the air hangs low, affecting everyone. “We’ll talk more about apples and the farm later, when you’re awake, alright?”

“Oh, okays.” More blankets shift as Toki nears the phone. Or maybe he’s holding on to the phone. Nathan has his back to the wall, eyes looking away from the light, from the intimate scene he never should’ve listened in on. “I likes the story so far. Even though them pigs ams kinda fishy, the horses and other animals ams nice.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

Strange to hear his voice so soft, so gentle and accepting of another man’s limitations. Even weirder to hear Magnus compliment the horse. Last he remembered, Magnus hated the horse. Dumb, gullible horse. Nathan grimaces at yet another memory that dares to rise from his personal, repressed storage. In the far distance, a smokey, gray image appears. Nathan spots the ghostly figure of Magnus approaching him, young and still full of vitality, kind words and promises. Nathan crushes it before it can get any closer. He holds his breath, waits until his lungs burn and the Magnus from his dreams dies down, but even after he vanishes, Nathan wonders where the hell was _ this _ version of Magnus so many years ago?

“Well, time’s almost up.”

“Thanks you for readins to me,” Toki chirps. Magnus tells the kid no problem, and Nathan silently gags at the sound Toki makes. A loud, audible smack. He’s kissing the damn phone. 

_ Really _ , Toki? Nathan tries searching for more insults, but instead, finds only his younger self wishing he was awarded the same opportunity. Unlike the Magnus before, this phantom lingers, stays with Nathan even after its form ceases to remain corporeal. 

“G’night, Magnus.”

“Sweet dreams, Toki.”

Nathan stares out, mind dwelling on the conversation. Where’s the damn cross comparison, the conspiracy and literary theories, and that long rave about how ignorant Toki was for not considering the “bigger picture?” Why isn’t Magnus mad at Toki for asking such a dumb question? Why is it that  _ he _ gets yelled at for not understanding Magnus, for crushing his vision, for not appreciating his contribution and message, but Toki gets to be read to, gets to ask stupid questions and earns warm appraisals for coming up with half-assed responses? Where is the fairness in that?

Nathan blinks, and realizes it’s silent. The air is still and lacking the warm glow from before, and the stone wall pressed against his back emits its solid, unforgiving chill. The light in Toki’s room is off, and was likely turned off the moment the call ended, and now it’s just him, standing alone in the dark, obsessed over the memory of a man who no longer existed. 

In his room, Toki sleeps restfully, tucked into bed by the kind words of that very same man. 

Nathan hangs his head low.  _ No fair. I at least knew it wasn’t about animals. _


	23. "Sweater" (Nategail)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why are you wearing my sweater?” “Because it smells like you.”
> 
> Rating: T

She walks in. Small.

The coffee maker purrs a trickle of hot, freshly brewed coffee into its glass mason. The rich scent simmers, floats and fills the cold, surrounding air, but Nathan can’t tear away from Abigail once he makes out the sound of her bare feet hitting the floor.

Legs, nimble and bare. Long. Slender. Eyes a rich forest green. Full of life, energy, and much like the curious smile set upon her flushed face, satisfying. Bouncy curls, askew. Still a mess from the crashing winds, the harsh German winters. She still looks good though. Her smile is poised, directed solely at him: a gun to his heart, blade to the throat. She passes him, saying nothing. Silent. Eyes suggestive. That stare. She’s sending more than her fair share of signals, and despite it, Nathan settles on the massive, gray blob draped over her form, slipping off one of her smooth shoulders, and extending far down, covering her hips and upper thighs. 

“Uh…” Nathan’s eyes set on her chest, on the zig-zag line of mounting Facebones covering her petite form. “Is that my–”

Abigail gets on her toes and grabs two mugs from the shelf. The contrast of her heel becomes abundantly apparent. The stretch and curvature of her spine. Her hair slips over her naked shoulder, draping it with thick curls that start to drag over the thick, knitted collar.

Has she always been so small?

“Sweater? Yes,” she states, ignorant of the effect it has on him. “Whose else could it be?”

“Oh.  _ Right _ .” Nathan replies feebly. She returns with two mugs. Her wrists are tiny in comparison to the hanging sleeve swaying in accordance with her graceful footing. It casts a shadow over the exposed skin Nathan can make out, see into the stretched tunnel carved from his muscles.

She offers up the cups. Nathan watches the sleeves sag down her arms. Slowly. Uneven. His eyes following along, but whereas the sleeves come to their eventual halt, Nathan continues onward. Bulging Facebones. Wrinkled material lifting with each inhale. Stretching. Why? Wide hips. Exposed legs. Why did he stick with only black and grey?

“Nathan?”

Ringing, loud and irritating. Nathan turns to see the coffee maker’s glass jar is filled with coffee, and Abigail hitting the switch to bring an end to that horrendous sound. She retracts, but Nathan sees the bare back, makes out the details of tightly wound curls, and he shudders a mild sweat.

He watches the sweater fall and hang over her frame, hears the drag of the material, feels every top of the curl spring when she returns to the cup, and offers him his dethmug.

Her smile draws his eyes away from the collar living over her chest. He swallows as he reaches for the coffee maker’s filled glass. “Why are you wearing my sweater?”

The second before she breaks into a chuckle, Nathan witnesses the parting of her lips. Smooth, soft, and full. The click of her white teeth that brings a shine to everything surrounding them. “Because it smells like you.” She leans back into the counter. “Also does a nice job keeping me warm,” she adds with a smile.

“Yeah,” Nathan agrees, lifting the mason to pour her a cup. As it fills, his eyes return to her bare, naked legs. Something about her remark feels facetious, he thinks, but he cannot put it into words, doesn’t feel the need to, not after he finishes, spots her smiling at him, and thanks him with a cheery grin.

The power her smile holds! It’s a demonic possession that’s sucked up his soul. There’s no bargaining involved. Nathan’s an immediate slave to it, an indentured servant willing to set the world ablaze in an unending hell if it meant he could have another glimpse, taste it, feel against his own. This, coupled with his sweater! He’s never known a woman that wanted to make him snap a man in half, smash their brains against a wall, but to also hold and cradle, run a gentle finger over those tickle-inducing curls, and whisper a promise to guard, protect and admire.

Numbing heat penetrates his nerves. Liquid hell scours his hand.

“Shit!” Nathan drops the mason jar and cup. He’s burnt his finger.

Spider-like pain trickles up the hand.

Adrenaline fuels his racing senses. 

Heartbeat fills and drowns all other sounds.

A cold sweat ignites. 

“Here we go.” Abigail returns to him, cold towel in hand, and through her practicality, or perhaps through some unseen witchcraft (Nathan secretly hopes for the later), she brings her hands over his, cooling and dulling the pain. Soothing. Sweet and tender. Her presence is a healing tincture alone, smile black magic, eyes a dangerous, maddening prophecy.

“Sweater too much?” she asks a few minutes later, once the pain is tolerable, and they remember there a sink nearby to hasten the course.

Admiring the bright burn spread across his left hand, then to round, supple parting of her chest, Nathan utters a chuckle. “Nah.”


End file.
